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Section      ^59  5 


II 


77~   /?''  ■    ■ 


7' 


/-./.;'•    // 


#^*#^' 


HA  rtford: 


Sroc'kett  Hut  oh  ins  on  (Leo. 


S  0 'I.  .G  18  1933 


o? 


THE    FIRESIDE. 


BY 


REV.  C.  W.  EYEEEST. 


HAETFOKD: 

BROCKETT   &  HUTCHINSON. 

1852. 


i 


'^ 


^s^^^^^^^^^^> 


Entered,  according'  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

C.  W.  EVEREST, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Connecticut. 


^*i^^m>^^^*^a^a^*^*^^0m^*^^0m 


-§3 


DEDICATORY    SONNET, 

TO  HAYNES  LORD. 

Old  Friend!  while  down  Time's  turbid  stream  we 
glide, 
As  fades  Life's  morning  landscape  from  the  view, 
Nor  Youth's  gay  scenes  their    gorgeous    light 
renew, 
And  bright  hopes  sink  within  the  whelming  tide : 
While  skies  grow  dark,  and  loud  the  shrieking 
gale, 
And  the  bold  seaman,  with  a  dauntless  breast, 
Stands  by  his  helm,  or  trims  his  laboring  sail. 
While  heaving  billows  toss  their  foaming  crest; 
Hearts  change  not  mid  the  tempests.    If  the  band 
Of  Friendship  joined — though  chance  may  force 

apart, 
Turns  each  to  other  still,  with  faithful  heart, 
And  oft  in  Memory  hand  is  clasped  in  hand. 
Memorial  of  our  "  Past,"  though  poor  it  be, 
Accept  these  humble  lays  I  dedicate  to  thee ! 

C.  W.  E. 

Hajmden,  Feb.  6, 1845. 


92 


^' 


S3 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  min' ! 
"'   Should  aold  acquaintance  be  forg'ot. 
And  days  o'  lang;  syne  1 

BURNS. 


PREFACE. 

In  committing  this  humble  volume  anew  to  the 
/  press,  a  word  of  explanation  is  proper.  The  lead- 
I  ing  poem  of  the  collection  was  published  by  itself, 
several  years  ago ;  and,  by  the  good  nature  of  the 
author's  many  friends,  the  edition  was  soon  ex- 
hausted. Subsequently,  under  another  name,  this 
present  volume  appeared,  and  passed  through  two 
editions.  It  has  long  since  ceased  to  haunt  that 
most  respectable,  but  (if  the  habit  become  con- 
firmed,) most  undesirable  resort — namely,  book- 
sellers' shelves.  The  author  hopes,  therefore,  that 
he  will  be  pardoned  for  again  commending  his  lit- 
tle book  to  the  notice  of  the  public,  under  a  new 
;  and  more  suitable  title.  If  his  "Songs  of  the 
Fireside  "  shall  be  greeted  by  any  with  a  smile 
of  welcome,  and  by  others  with  a  smile  of  generous 
forbearance,  his  highest  wish  will  be  accorded 
to  him. 

C.  W.  E. 
Hahden,  Ct.,  June,  1852, 


i 


■»^N^S^^^»^^^^i^»»^^^^     • 


a- 


^ 


,t,0^0t0*0»g 


When  a  frienJ  with  friends  rejoices 
Bj  the  taper's  beaming'  ligiil. 

Simple  songs,  by  kindly  Toices, 
Sometimes  cheer  the  lingering  night. 


■ 


CONTENTS. 

Pag-e. 

Vision  of  Death, 11 

A  Summer  Day's  Ramble, 25 

Notes  to  A  Summer  Day's  Ramble,        .        ,  35 

Fugitive  Poems, 37 

Sonnets  to  Haynes  Lord, 

I.  The  Church, 39 

II.  The  Ministry, 40 

The  Evening  Lay, 41 

Her  Spirit  hath  flown  to  its  Rest,        .        .        .45 

Oh  Cling  not  to  Earth, 46 

The  Flight, 48 

Farewell  to  a  Friend,        .        .        .        .        •  50 

Sailor's  Evening  Hymn, 51 

Burning  of  the  Ben  Sherrod,  and  Death  of 

Watson  Adams,     ..,.•.  53 

The  Night  Storm, 57 

Take  up  thy  Cross, 58 

Epitaph,                 59 

Lines  written  at  a  Solitary  Grave,   ...  60 

When  in  Fond  Memory's  Magic  Glass,      .  61 

To  a  Sleeping  Child, 63 

Christmas, 65 

Elegiac  Hymn, 68 

The  Monarch's  Wish, 69 


Vlll. 


CONTENTS. 


.    Page. 

Thanksgiving,  .        .        .       .        .        .        .       71 

The  Farmer,         .        .        .        .        ,        ,        .74 

The  Veteran, 76 

Songs  at  Evening, 79 

Sonnets  to  James  Dixon,         ....       81 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant, 83 

Birth-Day  Verses, 85 

As  thy  Day  is  so  shall  thy  Strength  be,      .        .88 
Song,  .........       89 

To  the  Memory  of  Bacon,  ,        .        .       .90 

Rest,  Soldier,  Rest,  ......        93 

The  Prince  of  Peace, .94 

When  from  those  we  love,  we  part,        .        ,        96 

The  Ruin, 97 

•Song  of  the  Sybil, 102 

Faith, 104 

Epitaph  for  an  Indian  Monument,  .  ,  .  105 
The  Friends  we  loved  in  Childhood, .  ,  .106 
The  Skater's  Song,  .        .        .        .        .        .107 

Watch  with  the  Dead, 110 

The  Floweret, 112 

Song  of  the  Wayfaring, 114 

Minstrel  sing  that  Song  again, .        .        .        .116 

The  Sleeping  Pilgrim, 118 

Christ  in  the  Tempest,      ...  .      123 

Life — its  Seasons, 125 

Notes  to  Fugitive  Poems,        ....      128 


\ 


©- 


VISION  OF  DEATH. 


—  32 


S' 


litres  hare  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowera  to  wfther  at  the  north  wind's  breath ; 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thiue  own,  oh  Death ! 

MRS.    HEMANS. 


l^- 


^' 


VISION   OF   DEATH. 


I. 


Go,  Death,  to  thy  mission  !— the  mandate  was 

given. 
And  the  echo  rolled  back  through  the  chambers  of ; 

Heaven : 
Then  faint  in  the  distance  its  mutterings  grew, 
And  a  being  of  horror  came  forth  to  my  view ! 
He  seemed  one  commissioned  for  terrible  deeds, 
For  dark  was  his  chariot,  and  pale  were  his  steeds; 
One  hand  grasped  a  sceptre,  the  other  a  dart. 
And  the  glow  of  his  eye  told  the  pride  of  his  heart; 
The  San,  at  his  glance,  shed  a  sicklier  ray. 
And  Nature,  astonished,  in  fear  shrunk  away ; 
The  heavens  grew  black  at  his  pestilent  breath, 
And  owned  liim  the  monarch  invincible — Death  ! 
He  cast  a  proud  glance  over  Earth's  happy  throng. 
And  breathed  to  the  Nations  his  horrible  song : 


m 


12 


-§3 


VISION     OF     DEATH. 


1. 


"  I  am  lord  of  the  Earth  ;  I  am  lord  of  the  Main  ; 

All  Nature  I  hold  in  my  withering  chain  : 

From  my  shadowy  realm,  in  the  chambers  of  night, 

I  will  come  on  my  pathway  of  mildew  and  bhght: 

The  surest  destruction  'tis  mine  to  impart; 

My  arrow  shall  pierce  to  the  manliest  heart ; 

I  will  shroud  man's  proud  hopes  in  the  darkness  of 

gloom, 
And  bear  him  from  all  that  he  loves,  to  the  tomb  ! 


"  I  will  spare  neither  innocence,  virtue,  nor  truth  j 
The  aged,  the  manly,  nor  childhood,  nor  youth  ; 
The  monarch  will  find  that  no  sceptre  can  save ; 
The  beggar  must  go  with  me  down  to  the  grave ; 
The  sad  and  forlorn,  with  the  happy  and  gay, 
Must  leave  all  behind  them,  and  hasten  away : 
Man  alike  is  my  prey,  nor  shall  favor  be  shown — 
I  will  give  each  an  arrow,  a  pall,  and  a  stone ! 


3. 


t^ 


"  The  being,  who,  sporting  in  infancy's  mom, 

Is  amused  with  Life's  rose,  but  espies  not  its  thorn, 


-^ 


VISION     OF     DEATH.  13  j 

I  will  mark  ;  and  my  dart  shall  in  pity  be  hurled, 
To  bear  him  away  from  a  cold-hearted  world  ! 
It  were  best  that  he  drink  not  too  deeply  of  Life — 
He  would  turn  with  disgust  from  its  fountains  of 

strife : 
In  the  grave's  quiet  gloom  shall  he  rest  from  its 

woes, 
Nor  Earth's  saddening  conflict  disturb  his  repose  I 


4. 


"  I  will  visit  the  couch  of  the  mother's  first-bom, 
And  the  mother,  despairing,  shall  sorrow  forlorn  ; 
I  will  tear  the  fond  wife  from  her  little-ones'  clasp, 
She  must  come  at  my  call,  she  must  shrink  from 

their  grasp : 
The  father,  though  dear  to  the  group  of  his  heart, 
From  his  wife  and  his  infants  for  ever  must  part :    < 
In  the  hall  of  affection  my  banner  shall  wave — 
I  am  lord  of  the  Earth,  I  am  lord  of  the  Grave ! 

5. 

"  I  will  visit  the  maid,  in  her  jessamine  bower, 
When  she  waits  for  her  lover  to  come  at  the  hour: 
He  will  come,  but  to  find  I  have  laid  her  at  rest. 
And  cold  is  the  heart  that  beat  warm  in  her  breast! 
I  will  visit  the  bride,  when  arrayed  for  the  groom. 
And  bid  her  prepare  to  descend  to  the  tomb ; 


ki9 


At  my  withering  touch  all  her  roses  shall  fade, 
And  the  couch  of  the  bridal  a  bier  shall  be  made  ! 


6. 


"  I  will  sever  the  pair  at  the  altar  united  ; 
The  joys  of  connubial  bliss  must  be  blighted  ; 
If  locked  in  each  other's  embrace,  they  shall  part, 
Though  the  absence  of  one  break  the  other's  fond 

heart! 
I  will  come  to  the  scene  when  long-parted  ones 

meet, 
And  in  Friendship's  fond  welcome  delighted  shall 

greet : 
I  will  tear  them  apart ;  they  shall  ne'er  meet  again, 
Till  they  meet  in  a  land  where  no  parting  gives 

pain !    ' 


7. 


"  I  will  visit  the  sage,  when,  through  night's  lonely 

hours, 
O'er  the  lore  of  past  ages  devoutly  he  pores  ; 
He  shall  cease  his  pursuits,  he  must  moulder  to 

dust — 
No  learning  can  save — I  am  true  to  my  trust ! 


i 


VISION    OF     DEATH.  15 

I  will  come  to  the  dungeon,  an  angel  of  peace, 

And  grant  to  the  captives  a  joyful  release  ; 

Their  chains  cannot  bind,  they  will  come  at  my 

call, 
And  Sorrow  no  longer  shall  hold  them  in  thrall ! 


8. 


"  I  will  visit  the  proud  one,  exulting  in  state. 
Who  shall  spurn  the  poor  beggar  that  kneels  at  his 

gate : 
I  will  humble  his  might ;  I  will  sadden  his  hall ; 
And  his  coucjh  shall  be  spread  with  my  funeral 

pall ! 
I  will  come  to  the  orphan,  despised  and  rejected  ; 
I  will  visit  the  widow,  by  false  friends  neglected  ; 
And  the  lordlings,  who  left  them  in  sorrow  to  sigh, 
By  conscience  affrighted,  despairing  shall  die  ! 


9. 

"  I  will  curb  mad  Ambition,  when  wading  through 

blood, 
And  mounting  the  throne  o'er  the  hearts  of  the 

good; 
I  will  call  upon  avarice,  toiling  for  dust ; 
His  treasures,  forsaken,  neglected  shall  rust : 


The  scoffer  shall  start  at  my  coming,  and  quail, 
And  the  stoutest  transgressor  turn  suddenly  pale 


;i 


16 


VISIA)N     OF     D  EAT  H. 


I  will  conquer  oppression,  and  tyranny  quell- 
But  unto  the  righteous— if  all  shall  be  well! 


10. 


"  I  will  come  to  the  banqueting-hall  in  my  power, 
When  music  and  beauty  alike  rule  the  hour  : 
The  song  shall  be  hushed,  and  the  dancer's  gay 

tread, 
For  the  proud  and  the  joyous  shall  sleep  with  the 

dead ! 

I  will  follow  the  hunter,  when  bounding  with  speed 
.J  He  follows  the  game  over  valley  and  mead ; 
\  He  shall  find  that  a  hunter,  with  woe  in  his  breath, 
Is  close  on  his  track — and  the  hunter  is  Death  I 


11. 

"  I  will  speed  to  the  soldier,  at  rest  on  the  plain, 
And  the  bugle,  at  morning,  will  call  him  in  vain  ; 
He  shall  sleep  in  my  arms,  with  no  shroud  but  his 

mail. 
Nor  awake  when  the  war-cry  swells  loud  on  the 

gale! 
Where  the  cloud  of  the  battle  is  dark  in  the  air. 
And  foemen  encounter,  then  look  for  me  there  ! 
The  proud,  vaunting  warrior  shall  bow  at  my  will ; 
I  will  say  to  the  war-horse — lie  down  and  be  still! 


\  VISIONOFD  EAT  H.  17 


12. 

"  The  sailor  careering  on  Ocean's  rude  wave, 
Shall  go  down  through  its  depths  to  a  fathomless 

grave; 
I  will  visit  the  hammock,  and  visit  the  deck ; 
I  will  ride  on  the  tempest,  and  shout  in  the  wreck  ! 
When  the  storm  rages  loud,  when  the  breezes  are 

fair, 
And  Ocean  is  calm,  I  will  hasten  me  there  : 
On  the  coral  the  sailor  must  sleep,  'neath  the  surge. 
And  the  murmur  of  waters  his  funeral  dirge  ! 

13. 

"  I  will  go  where  is  echoed  the  bacchanal's  song, 
And  enter,  unseen,  with  the  reveling  throng : 
Woe  !   woe !  when  the  red  wine  by  me  shall  be 

poured, 
The  lights  shall  go  out  round  the  festival  board ! 
I  will  visit  the  gamester's  low  hall  of  despair, 
And  alas  for  the  lip  that  shall  welcome  me  there  : 
The  wild  curse  of  horror  no  more  shall  be  said, 
But  the  blood-gushing  bosom  be  crushed  'neath  my 

tread ! 


14. 

"  T  will  visit  the  good  man,  to  sickness  a  prey,  . 

And  bid  him  prepare  for  a  happier  day  !  ,  | 


m^ 


18 


VISION     OF     DEATH 


He  will  not  be  affrighted,  but  welcome  me  on  ; 
He  is  tired  of  the  world,  and  he  longs  to  be  gone  ; 
He  knows  I  will  calm  all  the  woes  of  his  breast, 
And  bear  him  away  to  a  mansion  of  rest  ; 
He  will  not  plead  to  linger  where  pleasure  is  sad. 
But  will  smile  at  my  presence,  look  up,  and  be 
gladj 

15. 

"  Mortal !  proud  mortal !  prepare  for  my  call : 
Thou  Shalt  sleep,  at  the  last,  'neath  my  curtaining 

pall ! 
I  will  come — the  dread  herald  of  woe  to  the  gay, 
When  the  giddy  and  careless  will  think  me  away  ! 
I  will  come — and  the  hall,  shall  be  shrouded  with 

gloom. 
And  arrayed  with  the  emblems  of  Death  and  the 

tomb ! 
Be  prepared !  that  my  summons  shall  cause  no 

affright — 
For  my  arrow  is  noiseless — my  footstep  is  light  I " 


II. 


Thus  boasted  the  Monarch,  and  onward  he  rode, 
To  bear  his  destruction  in  terror  abroad  ! 
His  shafts,  all  unerring,  sped  fatal  and  wide, 
}  And  the  dead  and  the 'dying  fell  thick  by  his  side 


<r3 
VISION     OF     DEATH.  19 


No  pity  could  move  him,  no  terror  could  stay, 
But  to  Death's  silent  valley  he  bore  them  away  ! 
I  viewed  with  amaze,  and  was  trembling  with  fear, 
When  a  voice,  sweet  as  mercy,  fell  soft  on  my  ear : 
"  Now  turn  thy  rapt  gaze  from  this  picture  of  blight, 
To  the  visions  that  dawn  on  Futurity's  light :  " 

I  turned  me  with  joy  from  the  horrid  affray, 
And  the  veil  o'er  the  Future  rolled  slowly  away  ! 
The  mists,  that  o'ershadov/ed  its  scenes  from  my 

eye, 
Curled  darkly  in  clouds  to  the  dim,  distant  sky  : 
And,  quelling  my  doubts  and  my  harassing  fears, 
I  gazed  down  the  long,  gloomy  vista  of  years  ! 

V^  5^i  *^»  <^»  tr^  7p  *p 

III. 

I  looked  o'er  creation:   where,  where  was   her 

throng, 
So  giddy  in  pleasure,  so  happy  in  song  7 
Ah !  their  glad  hearts  were  stifled,  and  hushed  was 

their  breath. 
For  Earth's  countless  millions  were  sleeping  in 

Death ! 
There  were  "  heaps  upon  heaps"  of  the  mangled 

and  slain — 
The  Tyrant  had  boasted,  nor  boasted  in  vain  ! 
'T  was  a  horrible  scene ;  not  a  breath— not  a  groan— 
And  Death,  the  proud  victor,  was  stalking  alone  ! 


-^ 


^■ 


20 


VISION     OF     DEATH 


He  was  wearied  with  slaughter,  infirm  was  his 

tread, 
And  he  sat  him  at  rest  on  a  heap  of  his  dead  ! 

I  looked  to  the  Ocean :  't  was  placid  and  fair — 
But  Death,  with  his  mildew,  had  also  been  there  : 
The  ships  were  all  riding  alone  to  their  doom, 
For  the  sailors  had  gone  to  their  deep  ocean-tomb ! 

IV. 

Old  Time,  fast  expiring,  drew  tardily  nigh — 
But  his  arm  was  now  nerveless,  and  languid  his 
eye: 
"  Thou  hast  come,  my  last  victim,  thy  sceptre 

resign, 
And  bow  thee  in  humble  submission  to  mine  !  " 
Time  came  in  despair  to  the  Conqueror's  seat, 
And  expired,  with  a  quivering  groan,  at  his  feet ! 

******* 


V. 

The  thunders  rolled  off  on  their  final  career, 

Like  the  last  rending  groans  of  some  perishing 

sphere : 
The  lightnings  sped  forth  on  their  terrible  track, 
And  in  tempest  and  terror  the  curtain  rolled  back ! 


VISION     OF     DEATH. 


21  i 


VI. 

"  Fear  not,"  said  the  Spirit,  "  his  kingdom  is  o'er ; 
He  shall  speak  to  the  awe-stricken  mortal  no  more : 
Though  dominion  o'er  Earth  to  his  sceptre  was 

given, 
Yet   Death    shall   not   enter  the  portals 

OF  Heaven  ! " 


•32 


s^ 


S3 


»^^f*0m^*m<i^*^^*^k^k^t^t0 


A  SUMMER  DAY'S  RAMBLE. 


^*^l0^^^^t^^^k0*0*0^^*^t0^^*^0*^»^t^*0*f^0*^»^>^l^^^^>^t^^^^*0^^^^^^t0^^*^0^ 


Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 
Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 
Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever ! 


SCOTT. 


K' 


A    SUMMER    DAY'S    RAMBLE: 


^- 


The  Morning  dawned.  The  purple  light  streamed 
high 
O'er  the  far  eastern  hill-top,  and  the  Sun 
Moved  slowly  up  his  pathway  in  the  sky. 
The  dews  slept  lightly  on  the  meadow's  breast ; 
The  mists  crept  slowly  from  the  winding  rill ;  / 

While  Nature's  songsters,  in  the  balmy  groves, 
Rejoicing,  welcomed  in  the  smiling  day  ! 

It  was  a  morn  in  Summer  ;  and  my  eye 
Looked  out  upon  the  blooming  landscape  spread, 
Where  joyous  Thames,  along  our  eastern  bound, 
Pursues  his  froHc  pathway  to  the  Main,  l 
The  scene  invited  :  the  low  wind  went  by, 
With  a  soft,  wooing  whisper ;  and  the  breath 
Of  fragrant  Summer  stole  upon  the  sense. 
It  seemed  ungrateful  to  the  kindly  good 
Which  bounteous  Nature  had  so  freely  given, 
To  stay  shut  up  within  confining  walls  ; 
And,  with  my  gun  and  faithful  dog  beside, 
I  wandered  forth,  and  sought  the  waving  woods  ! 


26        A    SUMMER     day's     RAMBLE. 


The  light  breeze  sported  with  the  bended  boughs, 
Which  wove  above  my  head  their  living  screen, 
And  shut  out  all  the  garish  light  of  day. 
Save  where  some   straggling  sunbeam  struggled 

through. 
I  wandered  on,  beneath  the  grateful  shade, 
Pausing  at  times,  to  list  some  streamlet's  voice, 
Or  drink  the  music  of  some  forest  bird, 
And  sometimes  resting  by  the  torrent's  brink, 
That  gushed,  in  living  freshness,  from  the  rock. 

I  wandered  far :  the  Sun  rode  high  in  heaven, 
And  even  in  the  deep  woods  I  could  feel 
The  burning  fervor  of  his  strengthening  beams. 
'T  was  Noon-tide — and  around  me  all  was  hushed  ! 
It  seemed  like  Nature's  Sabbath  ;  not  a  sound 
Came  startling  on  the  still  and  quiet  air, 
Save  the  faint  murmur  of  some  distant  rill. 
I  did  not  dare  to  break  the  solemn  gloom. 
And  startle  Nature  with  the  deathful  shock : 
At  that  still  hour,  it  seemed  a  grievous  sin 
To  harm  God's  happy  creatures  in  their  rest ! 
The  birds,  unscared,  close  nestled  on  the  boughs. 
As  fearing  nought ;  and  sometimes  from  his  perch 
The  timorous  squirrel  ventured  softly  forth, 
And  cast  familiar  glances  at  my  dog  ; 
While  he,  poor  fellow,  constant  at  my  side, 
Kept  on  his  course,  obedient  to  my  word. 
There  was  no  murder  in  his  honest  face —  | 

His  fangs  all  bloodless  like  his  master's  gun.  ] 

Poor  Tray,  mute  comrade  of  my  lonely  hours,         ] 


A  SUMMER  day's  RAMBLE.   27 

Not   such    thy    'customed   mood:    yet    thou   too 

seem'dst 
To  share  the  spirit  which  pervaded  all ! 
We  wandered  thus,  unconscious  for  a  time, 
Till  suddenly  I  reached  the  forest's  verge. 
And.  in  the  distance,  'spied  a  place  of  graves ! 
A  burial-spot  hath  ever  charms  for  me  ; 
I  love  to  linger  with  the  quiet  dead. 
To  muse  all  thoughtful  o'er  their  lowly  rest. 
And  think  how  soon  my  frame  may  lie  as  low. 
But  here,  from  men  afar,  mid  woodland  shades, 
New  charms  invite,  new  beauties  clothe  the  scene — 
The  while,  with  eager  step,  1  sought  the  stop. 

It  was  a  place  from  vulgar  gaze  well  screened, 
And,  by  the  humble  stones  which  met  my  view, 
I  knew  that  'neath  the  earth  whereon  I  stood 
The  old  Mohegan  warriors  slept  in  death  !  2 
There  was  no  pompous  state  to  mar  the  scene  : 
The  heaving  turf  showed  where  each  warrior  slept. 
Except  at  times  some  plain  ungarnished  stone. 
Which  told  but  little,  save  the  sleeper's  name. 
And  there  was  Uncas'  grave  ;  and  by  it  stood 
The  shameful  mockery  of  a  "  corner-stone,"  3 
For  what  was  once  a  Monument  designed. 
When  a  just  frenzy  for  a  moment  worked 
Within  the  White  Man's  veins  :  but  all  beside 
Was  simple,  like  the  h^earts  that  slept  below. 
It  was  a  time  and  place  for  thought  well  meet. 
And  freely,  then,  my  unchecked  Fancy  ranged  ! 


'^ 


) 


i28    A  SUMMER  day's  RAMBLE. 

'Twas   strange,  methought,  what    change  had 

marked  the  scene  ! 
Few  years  agone,  and  all  this  spreading  land 
Was  the  wild  Indian's  realm.     The  forest  wide 
Spread  o'er  each  hill  and  vale,  in  solemn  state. 
The    clustering    wigwams    sent    their    wreathed 

smoke, 
To  mark  the  Red  Man's  home  !    Amid  the  shades 
Ranged  the  free  stag  at  will,  and  fearing  nought 
But  the  winged  arrow,  with  its  feathery  death ! 
'Twas  peaceful  all,  save,  when  at  midnight's  hour, 
Around  the  Council-fire's  unearthly  glow, 
The  stalwart  savage  warmed  in  fierce  debate  : 
Or  when  rang  wild  upon  the  startled  air, 
The  fearful  yell  of  battle,  or  the  din 
Of  meeting  warriors  in  the  deadly  strife  : 
Or  save,  vvhen,  for  some  unforgiven  wrong, 
The  tortured  victim's  dying  shriek  arose. 
To  fright  the  brooding  Night — then  all  was  hushed ! 
The  Red  Man  roamed  his  forest-kingdom  o'er. 
Ambition's  promptings  all  unheard,  unknown. 
Nor  recked  of  lands  beyond  his  own  broad  realm. 
A  fearful  change  came  o'er  the  placid  scene ! 
A  pale-browed  stranger  sought  the  peaceful  shore, 
And  asked  a  home.     Unconscious  aught  of  guile, 
The  simple  Indian  bade  him  welcome  in. 
Nor  deemed  he  pressed  a  viper  to  his  breast ! 
What  need  to  tell  the  tale  so  often  told, 
How  the  harsh  discord  of  the  settler's  axe 
Disturbed  the  forest's  gloom — and  where,  of  eld, 


^ 


A     SUMMER     day's     RAMBLE.        2J 


Danced  the  light  shallop  o'er  the  sparkling  wave, 
Up  rose  the  busy  mill,  with  jarring  clang ; 
And  how,  where  long  old  Nature  held  domain, 
In  fond  affection  with  her  red-browed  child, 
The  noisy  hamlet,  with  its  toilsome  strife, 
Intruded  on  the  scene  ;  till,  step  by  step. 
The  land  was  wrested  from  its  rightful  lords. 
And,  as  at  touch  of  some  magician's  wand. 
Thronged  towns  and   cities  rose  throughout  the 

realm  ! 
The  Red  Men  passed  away,  like  morning  mist, 
When  Sol  rejoices  in  the  Orient  sky  ! 
They  passed  away — save  in  the  Western  land, 
A  few  lorn  wanderers  from  their  fathers'  graves. 
Chased  by  the  wave  of  population  on  ! 
All  gone — their  very  name  almost  forgot, 
With  scarce  a  vestige  to  recall  their  race. 
Except  at  times  some  lonely  burial  spot, 
Still  rescued  from  the  ruthless  spoiler's  grasp, 
Like  that  amid  whose  humble  graves  I  stand  ! 
While  thus  I  gave  my  restless  Fancy  scope, 
And  thought  was  busy  with  the  vanished  Past, 
Resistless  slumber  o'er  my  senses  stole. 

I  slept — and  in  my  dreaming  ear  I  heard, 
Methought,   strange  voices,  murmuring   sad  and 

low! 
It  might,  perchance,  have  been  but  Fancy's  wile — 
But  seemed  it  more  like  Nature's  wailing  voice. 
Mourning  her  lost  ones,  with  a  mother's  grief, 
And  then  a  spirit  tone  did  answer  make  ! 


CS^ 


e?^ 


30 


A     SUMMER     DAYS     RAMBLE 


"  Where  are  they — the  Red  men — the  noble  and 

brave  1 
Have  they  passed  from  "the  Earth  to  Oblivion's  cold 

grave  1 
Where  are  they  1 " — it  cried,  with  a  sadness  forlorn, 
And  anon  on  the  gale  a  faint  answer  was  borne  : 
J 

"  With  their  goodness  and  their  worth, 
They  have  vanished  from  the  earth  : 
For  the  White  Man,  in  his  wrath. 
Lurked  beside  the  Indian's  path  ; 
And,  with  cruel,  treacherous  hands, 
Drove  him  from  his  rightful  lands : 
This  he  gave  for  Friendship's  token, 
And  the  Indian's  heart  was  broken  ! 


i 


"  \Vhere  the  Red  Man's  wigwam  lay, 
Now  the  Pale  Face  makes  his  stay ; 
Where  the  light  canoe  was  plied, 
There  the  White  Man's  vessels  ride ; 
Where  the  Chiefs  in  council  met. 
Now  the  Pale  Face's  lodge  is  set; 
All  unstrung  the  bow  is  laid. 
Rust  is  on  the  hatchet's  blade  ; 
And  the  music-tones  are  hushed, 
From  the  happy  hearts  that  gushed; 
Now  the  battle-song  is  o'er. 
And  the  whoop  is  heard  no  more  ; 
Death's  submissive,  tranquil  slaves. 
Sleep  they  by  their  fathers'  graves  !  " 


52 


''Have  they  all  from  the  scenes  of  their  sorrow 

departed  1 
Are  there  jio7ie  of  that  race  of  the  desolate-hearted  1 " 

"  Yes  !  a  wretched  few  remain, 
Groaning  'neath  Affliction's  chain; 
But  their  eye  hath  lost  its  brightness, 
And  their  nimble  step  its  lightness  : 
Sad  of  heart,  and  sick  of  soul, 
Hastening  to  their  final  goal — 
Torn  in  spirit,  lost  in  name, 
Wounded  by  unconscious  shame — 
Soon  will  all  their  griefs  be  o'er, 
For  their  sun  will  rise  no  more  !  '* 

"Do  they  cling  to  the  spot  which  their  infancy 

cherished. 
Where  their  hopes,  and  their  friends,  and  their 

country,  have  perished  1 " 

"  With  a  torn  and  bleeding  heart, 
They  were  doomed  with  home  to  part : 
Though  they  plead,  with  deepest  woe. 
Still  the  spoiler  bade  them  go  : 
And,  with  bosoms  swelled  with  grief,  ■ 
Pangs  that  could  not  know  relief, 
Faltering  step  and  trembling  hand. 
Slowly  left  their  fathers'  land  ! 
But  amid  their  dark  despair, 
Still  one  dreadful  hope  was  there  : 


32        A     SUMMER     day's     RAMBLE. 

And,  with  streaming,  aching  eyes 
Raised  in  anguish  to  the  skies, 
Prayed  that  Vengeance's  direst  pall, 
On  th'  oppressor's  head  might  fall ; 
And  the  gentle  winds  of  even 
Bore  their  withering  curse  to  Heaven  ! 

"  Now,  the  lonely  Indian's  gun 
Echoes  toward  the  setting  sun; 
And  no  happy  note  of  gladness 
Breaks  upon  his  spirit's  sadness ; 
For  he  mourns  a  blighted  race, 
Weary  of  their  deep  disgrace  : 
Soon  will  mild  Pacific's  breast 
Guard  their  last,  unbroken  rest !  " 


I  woke,  and  gazed  in  solemn  awe  around  ! 
The  Sun  his  high  meridian  bound  had  passed : 
No  form  appeared,  nor  sound  of  spirit's  voice, 
Save  that  which  lingered  in  my  waking  ear. 
And  echoed  round  my  heart:  'twas  hushed  and 

still. 
E'en  as  before  my  sleep.    The  tall  old  oaks, 
Sad  lingering  monarchs  of  their  perished  race, 
Like  giant  sentinels,  stretched  out  their  arms, 
To  guard  their  comrades  who  reposed  below : 
While  through  their  leaves,  and  through  the  wav- 
ing grass, 
The  sad  wind,  hushed,  with  mournful  whisper 


eS- 


sighed : 


^^ 


A  SUMMER  day's  RAMBLE.   33 


And  just  below,  around  the  hillock's  base, 

The    laughing   river,    where    their    barks   were 

launched, 
All  sportive  in  its  tide,  came  gaily  on ; 
But,  as  it  neared  their  bed,  it  checked  its  mirth, 
And  gently  murmured  by  their  dewy  couch. 
Till  past  their  bound — then  gamboled  on  its  way. 

Rest,  warriors,  rest!   my  sorrowing  heart  ex- 
claimed : 
'T  is  very  meet  that  Nature's  weary  child, 
When  the  brief  chances  of  Life's  day  are  o'er, 
Should  lay  at  last  his  head  upon  her  breast, 
And  rest  from  all  his  labor  !    Sleep  in  peace, 
Far  from  the  busy  city's  hated  throng  ! 
Ye  did  not  live  to  see  your  sorrowing  tribes 
Driven  like  outcasts  from  their  natal  soil ; 
Ye  would  not  stay  to  see  your  fathers'  graves 
Treated  with  scorn,  and  opened  to  the  day ; 
Ye  died  in  honor,  and  ye  rest  in  peace  ! 

I  turned  :  the  sun  was  speeding  to  his  rest; 
My  dog  was  whining,  restless  to  depart ; 
I  seized  my  gun,  and  sadly  moved  away. 
Yet,  ere  I  quite  could  leave  the  hallowed  spot, 
I  cast  one  lingering,  farewell  look  behind : 
It  fell  on  Uncas'  grave  ! 

Farewell  good  Chief- 
Brave,  noble  Uncas,  best  of  all  thy  race. 
Thy  bleeding  country's  last,  her  proudest  hope — 
Rest,  champion,  rest,  thy  labors  nobly  done  ! 
What  though  for  thee  no  stately  marble  rise, 

.82 


K' 


34        i.    SUMMER     DAY*S    RAMBLE 


•S3 


No  towering  pillar  high,  nor  storied  urn, 
To  tell  thy  goodness  to  a  coming  age  1 
Thou  need'st  them  not :  while  Truth  shall  live, 
''■  Or  Fi'eedom  dwell  with  men,  thou  shalt  not  die, 
Thy  virtues,  writ  in  living  hearts,  shall  be 
Thy  Monument— thy  name  thine  Epitaph ! 


(TO 


NOTES. 


I  Where  joyous  Thames,  along'  our  eastern  bound, 
Pursues  his  frolic  pathway  to  the  Main. 

The  scene  of  this  poem  is  found  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city  of 
Norwich,  near  the  banks  of  the  river  Thames,  in  the  south-east- 
era  part  of  Connecticut. 

2  The  old  Mohegan  warriors  slept  in  death. 

At  the  time  of  this  visit,  which  was  several  years  since,  these 
graves  were  distinctly  visible,  and  at  the  head  of  several  were 
small  slabs  of  slate-stone.  Whether  "  the  march  of  improve- 
ment" has  yet  spared  the  little  mounds  and  their  "frail  memo- 
rials," or  whether  they  have  shared  the  usual  fate  of  the  Red 
Men,  and  whatever  appertains  to  them,  we  know  not. 

3  And  there  was  Uncas'  grave ,  and  by  it  stood 
The  shameful  mockery  of  a  "  corner-stone." 

The  reader  may  not  have  forgotten  that,  several  years  ago,  it 

was  proposed  to  erect  a  suitable  monument  at  the  grave  of  this 

best  Chief  of  the  Mohegans — this  ever  friend  of  the  Colonists. 

When  President  Jackson,  during  his  administration,  made  his 

celebrated  tour  through  New  England,   the  time  of  his  visit  to 

Norwich  was  deemed  a  suitable  one  for  beginning  this  laudable 

enterprise.   Accordingly  a  procession  was  formed,  which  marched 

to  the  grave  of  Uncas,  and  the  "  corner-stone"  was  laid  by  the 

President.    All  superstructures  require  foundations:  but  we  have 

yet  to  learn  that  foundations  alone  avail. 

(      We  are  happy  to  add,  that,  long  after  our  "  Ramble,"  when 

]  years  of  neglect  had  intervened^  a  suitable  monument  has  beeu 

-,  erected. 


■^ 


FUGITIVE   POEMS. 


^»^>^^%*%»*  ' 


'52 


^ 


.5? 


There  's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines :  There  's  rue  for  you  ; 
and  here  's  some  for  me:  we  may  call  it  herb  of  grace  o'  Sundays: 
you  may  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference  — There  's  a  daisy : — 1 

would  give  you  some  violets  ;  but  they  withered  all 

SHAKSPEARE. 


^■ 


^ 


FUGITIVE   POEMS: 


SONNETS  TO  HAYNES  LORD. 

I. 

THE  CHURCH. 

Lo!  where  the  Church  invites  our  wandering  feet! 

We  rove  unheeding  o'er  Life's  changing  way ; 
Along  its  path  forbidden  Pleasures  greet, 

And  woo  and  win  our  erring  steps  to  stray 

Adown  the  course  which  leads  from  endless  day ! 
Poor  wanderers  to  a  realm  of  boding  night — 

Ah,  whither  turn — ah,  where  for  refuge  flee  ! 
Despair  not,  mourner  !  robed  in  heavenly  light 

The  Church  unfolds  her  gracious  doors  for  thee ; 

Here  may'st  thou  refuge  find — salvation  free. 
Divine  retreat  by  God's  free  mercy  given! 

The  hungry  soul  is  fed  by  food  divine  ; 

O'er  all  the  path  God's  radiant  glories  shine  ! 
Peace  leads  the  soul  in  bliss — and  Mercy  guides  to 
Heaven  ! 


-Sf 


'§3 


40 


FUGITIVE     P  OEM  S. 


n. 


THE  MINISTRY. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  within  this  hallowed  home, 
By  God's  good  Spirit,  we  have  found  a  rest. : 
Oh,  may  we  never  from  its  precincts  blest, 

Won  by  the  spirit's  Foe,  despairing  roam  ! 

Unworthy  of  His  love,  our  sovereign  Lord 
Hath  chosen  me  a  herald  of  His  name  : 
Joyous  I  go,  His  message  to  proclaim, 

And  plead  the  merits  of  the  gracious  Word  f 

Oh  !  may  His  mercy  ever  be  adored 
By  my  Life's  offering :  may  His  courts  be  prest 
By  ransomed  wanderers  panting  for  his  rest  : 

And  when,  at  last,  my  race  on  Earth  is  run, 

May  I,  with  thee,  receive  the  dear  "  Well  done. 

Good  faithful  servant  blest, — thy  crown  of  joy  is 
won !  ** 


K- 


**^^N/^i.^N^%^^-.qJ2 


ft? 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  41 


'ors 


THE  EVENING  LAY. 

The  sun  had  sunk  in  stately  mien, 

Behind  the  glowing  west ; 
And  Nature  spread  her  loveliest  scene 

To  tranquilize  the  breast : 
Wooed  by  the  hour,  I  wandered  forth, 

Far  from  the  city's  strife  ; 
Forgetting,  as  of  nothing  worth, 

The  joys  and  ills  of  life. 


The  silvery  moonbeams  kissed  the  flowers. 

In  Summer's  loveliest  trim  ; 
The  birds  within  their  silent  bowers. 

Had  ceased  their  evening  hymn  ; 
Unconscious,  through  a  smiling  vale, 

My  path  had  led  afar ; 
When,  on  the  evening's  gentle  gale, 

I  heard  a  light  guitar. 

A  maiden  kneeled  within  a  grove. 

Bathed  in  the  hallowed  glow  ; 
Made  sacred  by  the  holiest  love 

A  mortal  heart  can  know  : 
Here  she  had  wandered  all  alone, 

From  home  and  friends  away  ; 
And,  in  a  voice  of  sweetest  tone, 

She  breathed  an  Evening  Lay. 


42 


-m 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


^- 


It  did  not  to  the  class  belong 

By  Genius'  favorites  given  ; 
'T  wras  but  a  simple,  artless  song, 

Of  grateful  thanks  to  Heaven  : 
Far  from  the  crowd,  she  knew  no  fear 

Her  debt  of  love  to  pay  ; 
And  thought  that  only  God  was  near, 

To  hear  her  Evening  Lay. 

I  gazed  in  awe  :  so  fair,  so  young. 

Glowing  with  holiest  fire  ; 
It  seemed  an  angel's  sinless  tongue, 

An  angel's  golden  lyre  ! 
Gently  the  numbers  died  away, 

I  saw  the  maid  depart ; 
And  sorrow,  with  resistless  sway, 

Stole  o'er  my  saddened  heart. 

I  lingered,  as  by  magic  spell, 

Along  that  valley's  plain  ; 
Then  gave  a  look  of  sad  farewell, 

And  sought  the  world  again  : 
The  dreams  of  bliss— Hope's  flattering  tale, 

Enticed  my  feet  afar ; 
But  oft  would  Fancy  rove  the  vale, 

And  hear  the  sweet  guitar. 

I  've  tasted  what  Earth  calls  delight, 

I'  ve  bowed  at  Folly's  shrine  ; 
And  Wealth  has  opened  on  my  sight 

Its  beauties  half  divine: 


-22 


K' 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  43 


^^■^^^^^^^v 


But  what  are  all  the  swelling  train, 

That  roll  in  pride  along  1 
I  'd  give  them  all  to  hear  again 

That  country  maiden's  song. 

Where  Pleasure's  stream  has  murmured  by, 

I  've  knelt  me  down  to  sip  ; 
I  've  drank  the  light  of  Beauty's  eye, 

The  smile  of  Beauty's  lip : 
And  Pomp  has  played  his  wildering  part, 

And  Wit  has  ruled  the  day  ; 
But  nothing  yet  has  touched  my  heart. 

Like  that  sweet  Evening  Lay. 

I  've  stood  beneath  the  fretted  dome, 

To  holiest  worship  given, 
When  the  loud  anthem's  swelling  tone 

Pealed  to  the  listening  heaven  ! 
Awhile,  entranced,  I  marked  the  strain, 

Then  turned  in  grief  away, 
And  sighed  to  hear  but  once  again 

That  simple  Evening  Lay. 

When  tossing  on  the  couch  of  rest, 

A  stranger  to  repose  ; 
And  harrowing  cares  distract  the  breast, 

Of  earth  and  earthly  woes  ; 
When  plodding  o'er  Life's  mournful  track, 

To  wretchedness  a  prey, 
Then  soft  on  Memory's  pinions  back 

Is  borne  that  Evening  Lay. 


44 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


Let  Age  its  onward  numbers  roll — 

'Twill  calm  my  troubled  breast, 
And  heal  the  sorrows  of  a  soul 

By  earthly  cares  distressed : 
But  though  before  its  withering  pace 

Our  early  loves  decay ; 
It  cannot  from  my  mind  efface 

That  simple  Evening  Lay. 


^ 


FUGITIVE    POEMS.  45 


fe. 


HER  SPIRIT  HATH  FLOWN  TO  ITS  REST. 

Her  spirit  hath  flown  to  its  rest, 

Afar  from  our  sorrowing  clod; 
To  the  bright  happy  land  of  the  blest, ' 

And  the  smiles  of  its  glorious  God  : 
She  lingered  a  season  below, 

But  to  wash  from  her  spirit  the  stain  : 
Then  soared  from  our  valley  of  woe, 

To  the  far  heights  of  glory  again  ! 

She  hath  fled  to  the  mansions  above, 

And  found  out  the  blood-ransomed  throng; 
She  hath  drank  of  the  fountains  of  love, 

And  joined  in  the  Seraphim's  song ; 
She  hath  gone  to  the  land  of  her  birth. 

Where  the  anthems  of  holiness  rise ; 
She  wearied  with  dwelling  on  Earth, 

And  returned  to  her  home  in  the  skies  ! 

Her  spirit  hath  flown  to  its  rest. 

Its  sorrows  and  sufferings  o'er ; 
It  hath  gained  the  far  dime  of  the  blest, 

It  will  visit  our  cold  Earth  no  more  ! 
Then  weep  not — 't  were  sinful  to  mourn. 

That  the  Tyrant  our  fond  hope  hath  riven  : 
Though  she 's  gone,  and  no  more  may  return, 

She  bathes  in  the  glory  of  Heaven  ! 


46 


-^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


OH  CLING  NOT  TO  EARTH. 


Lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  Heaven.    Matt.  tL  20. 

Oh  cling  not  to  Earth  !  for  its  sunshine  and  roses 
Oft  lure  the  fond  heart  in  Life's  innocent  morn  : 

But  the  sunlight  is  gone  when  the  cloud  interposes, 
And  Life's  smiling  rose-buds  have  many  a  thorn. 


I' 


Oh  cling  not  to  Earth  !  for  its  treasures  are  fleet, 
.And  its  purest  enjoyments  but  bloom  for  decay : 

Thou  wilt  find  them  at  best  but  a  glorious  cheat, 
Still  smihng  and  tempting — and  passing  away  ! 


S 


Oh  cling  not  to  Earth  !  though  its  cups  of  delight, 

Are  sparkling  in  beauty  to  tempt  thee  to  sip ; 
Thou  wilt  find  that  their  dregs  are  but  mildew  and 
blight, 
And  that  while  thou  art  tasting  they  pall  on  the 
lip. 


Oh  cling  not  to  Earth  !  do  not  yield  it  thy  heart, 
For  its  joys  are  succeeded  by  sadness  and  gloom; 

Its  friendships  are  broken,  its  hopes  all  depart. 
And  the  lamp  of  its  being  is  quenched  in  the 
tomb. 


^^' 


da 


FUGITIVE      POEMS. 


Oh  cling  not  to  Earth,  then,  but  look  thou  above, 
Wiiere  the  flowers  never  droop,  nor  the  pleasures 
decay ; 

Turn — turn  to  that  region  of  holiest  love, 
And  lay  thee  up  treasures  that  fade  not  away. 


^' 


S2 


48  FUGITIVE     POEMS.  *^ 


THE  FLIGHT. 

I  SEE  them  yet — ^the  vision  haunts  me  still ! 
The  mad  steeds  dashing  o'er  the  trembling  pave, 
With  eye  of  flame,  and  nostril  wide  dilate, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  'round  their  airy  hoofs  ! 
And  while  bold  hearts  shrunk  back,  with   fear 

aghast, 
Lo  !  high  upon  the  bounding  chariot's  seat 
A  maiden  form  appeared  !    Alone  she  sat — 
No  strong  sire  nigh,  to  quell  the  coursers'  rage. 
No  voice  to  breathe  inspiring  words  of  cheer  ! 
Yet  proud  she  seemed,  with  cheek  unblanched  the 

while, 
Her  eye  untearful,  and  with  brow  as  calm 
As  when,  in  festive  scene,  at  Pleasure's  call, 
Amid  the  joyous  dancers'  flitting  forms 
She  moved,  the  goddess  of  the  glittering  hour ! 

'T  is  meet  for  men  of  iron  hearts  and  frames. 
To  gaze  undaunted  into  danger's  face  i 
'T  is  meet  for  them — for  they  were  formed  for  strife, 
And  should  not  quail  at  peril's  trial  hour  ! 
The  warrior,  when  he  lists  the  clarion's  sound, 
May  rush,  unshrinking,  to  the  cannon's  mouth  ! 
When  Ocean's  storms  are  loud  in  wildest  wrath, 
The  daring  seaman,  in  his  trembling  barque. 
May  smile,  in  mockery  at  the  tempest's  power  ! 
The  "  boy  may  stand  upon  his  burning  deck," 


FUGITIVE      POEMS.  49 

And  look  serenely  from  "his  post  of  death." 
Bat  when  does  Courage  more  ennobling  seem, 
Than  when,  upon  a  light  and  fragile  car, 
That  seems  more  fitting  e'en  a  Fairy's  tread, 
A  lonely  maiden,  with  majestic  mien, 
(While  ghastly  Death  seems  hurrying  for  his  prey,) 
Looks  forth  all  calmly  on  the  wild  steeds'  flight, 
Nor  shrinks,  in  terror,  from  their  foaming  rage  ! 

I  see  them  yet — the  vision  haunts  me  still ! 
It  will  not  heed  my  bidding,  to  depart ! 
But  ever,  to  my  restless  Fancy's  view, 
Those  frantic  barbs,  like  spirit- forms,  go  by! 
And  high  upon  the  bounding  chariot's  seat, 
(As  Phaeton  erst  gazed,  but  with  more  fear. 
Upon  the  flying  coursers  of  the  Sun,) 
I  see  a  fair  girl,  gazing  o'er  the  scene. 
With  brow  so  calm,  the  daring  thought  alone 
Would  fire  with  zeal  the  warrior's  fainting  heart, 
And  nerve  his  arm  for  desperate  deed  anew  ! 


(60  FUGITIVE     POEMS.  j 


FAREWELL-TO  A  FRIEND. 

Farb  thee  well ! 
For  the  boat  upon  the  strand 
Waits  to  bear  tliee  from  the  land ; 
And  the  ship  within  the  bay, 
Pants  to  course  her  watery  way. 
Fare  thee  well !  may  God  protect  thee, 
And  his  constant  love  direct  thee — 
Guide  thee  o'er  thy  devious  track, 
And  return  thee  joyous  back ! 

Fare  thee  well ! 

Fare  thee  well !  and  oh  !  if  never 
We  again  on  Earth  may  meet  thee, 
And  in  Friendship's  welcome  greet  thee ; 
If,  cut  down  by  early  doom, 
Thou  shalt  seek  the  sailor's  tomb ; 
Or,  upon  some  distant  shore. 
All  thine  earthly  labors  o'er, 
Foreign  hands  shall  deck  thy  bier, 
Watered  by  the  stranger's  tear — 

Then — fare  thee  well  for  ever ! 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  51 


SAILOR'S  EVENING  HYMN. 

Thee  we  praise,  thou  God  of  Ocean, 

Whom  the  raging  seas  obey  ! 
Thou,  who  still'st  their  wild  commotion. 

By  thine  own  Almighty  sway  ! 
Now,  while  day's  fair  light  is  ending — 

Night  leads  forth  her  shadows  dim— 
From  thy  throne  of  glory  bending, 

Hear  the  Sailor's  evening  hymn ! 

Over  all  thy  works  so  tender, 

Creatures  all  thy  goodness  share  ;' 
And,  from  yon  bright  worlds  of  splendor 

Thou  dost  mark  the  Sailor's  care  ; 
To  his  cry,  propitious  ever, 

Turnest  in  his  deep  distress ; 
And  with  all  a  father's  favor, 

Dost  thy  wandering  children  bless. 

Thou  alone  art  our  protection, 

While  our  watery  course  we  keep  ; 
Thou  dost  mark  our  whole  direction, 

O'er  the  lone  and  trackless  deep ; 
When  our  bark  doth  trembling  ride 

O'er  the  madly  tossing  sea, 
Vain  the  pilot's  art  to  guide, 

Unless  Thou  our  pilot  be  ! 


^' 


52 


FUGITIVE      POEMS. 


■^ 


Master  !  grant  us  yet  thy  love  : 

Send  us  still  the  favoring  gale ; 
Bid  the  sky  be  bright  above  ; 

Gently  swell  our  whitening  sail ! 
Guide  us  safe  our  journey  o'er 

All  the  wide  extended  Main, 
To  the  stranger's  distant  shore, 

Monarch  of  the  watery  plain  ! 

Ever  thus,  thou  God  of  Ocean, 

Calm  and  tranquil  be  our  day ; 
Let  no  tempest's  rude  commotion, 

Fright  us  on  our  peaceful  way  ; 
Prosperous  winds  and  skies  be  given, 

Till  Life's  dangerous  sea  be  past; 
Then,  within  the  port  of  Heaven, 

May  we  anchor  safe  at  last ! 


Eg. 


-?a 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  53 


^0^^^^^^l^^t^^^f^f^^^'^i^1^^^^^f^0^f^f^^^^^0a0^^*^^^*^*^*^t^ 


BURNING  OF  THE  BEN  SHERROD. 
AND    DEATH    OP    WATSON    ADAMS, 

The  Sun  went  down  the  purpling  west 

In  all  his  regal  pride, 
When  the  gallant  steamer  stemmed  the  breast 

Of  the  Mississippi's  tide,  l 

Full  many  an  eye  from  the  vessel's  deck, 

Gazed  forth  on  the  parting  gleam  ; 
Nor  deemed  that  a  blackened  and  mournful  wreck 

Would  greet  his  returning  beam. 

Thus  gladdening  joys  are  gaily  thrown 

O'er  Life's  young  morning  bright ; 
An  hour — and  the  golden  hopes  are  strewn 

By  the  withering  hand  of  Blight ! 

The  Night  came  down  at  the  daylight's  close, 

Like  the  wings  of  a  brooding  dove  ; 
And  gathered  Earth's  children  to  calm  repose, 

With  whispers  of  peace  and  love. 

And  the  gallant  steamer  held  her  way, 

All  hushed  o'er  the  liquid  track, 
While  her  sleepers  dreamed  of  the  coming  day, 

And  loved  ones  welcoming  back. 


54 


-53 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


'T  was  midnight's  hour.    O  God  !  the  cry 

Which  rose  on  the  startled  air; 
An  hundred  forms,  all  ghastly,  fly 

To  the  deck  in  wild  despair  I 

Then  a  fearful  shriek  from  the  doomed  rung  out, 
As  the  flames  burst  fierce  around ; 

The  lurid  sky  gave  back  the  shout, 
And  the  waves  prolong  the  sound. 

Ah  me  !  the  fainting  heart  would  fail 

To  recount  the  scene  anew — 
How  demons  seemed  riding  the  fiery  gale, 

And  mocking  the  ghostly  crew ; 

How  bearded  men,  in  stem  despair. 

Gazed  forth  with  gushing  tears : 
And  Woman's  tender  form  was  there. 

And  Childhood's  budding  years ! 

A  lingering  few  survived,  to  tell 

The  mournful  tale  of  woe. 
How  brave  hearts  in  the  red  flames  fell, 

And  some  in  the  waves  below. 


The  Sun  rose  up  in  the  golden  east. 

To  tread  his  pathway  o'er, 
When  a  black  hull  rolled  on  the  river's  breast, 

And  corpses  strewed  the  shore. 


^■ 


■52 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  55 


And  stranger  forms  did  o'er  them  weep, 
And  bore  them  with  kindly  hand, 

And  gathered  them  to  their  dreamless  sleep, 
In  that  far-oflf  stranger-land. 

The  time  is  long  since  passed,  I  wot, 
And  the  river  rolls  on  in  pride ; 

But  not  a  sign  marks  out  the  spot 
Where  the  good  Ben  Sherrod  died ! 


And  thou,  my  friend,  dear  loved  and  lost ! 

Upon  that  night  of  gloom, 
How  was  thine  heart  with  anguish  tost, 

Above  thy  beckoning  tomb ! 

A  mother's  love,  all  fond  and  warm. 

Came  o'er  thy  memory  then  ; 
And  many  a  dear  remembered  form, 

Thou  ne'er  should'st  meet  again  ! 

But  it  little  boots  where  the  good  and  just 
Shall  end  Life's  wearying  roam  ; 

For  the  spirit  soars  with  unwavering  trust 
To  a  bright  eternal  home  1 

And  it  little  boots  where  their  ashes  sleep ! 

For  we  know,  when  the  call  is  given, 
The  angels  their  holy  charge  will  keep. 

And  bear  them  away  to  Heaven ! 


^- 


^- 


56 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


-S3 


Farewell,  dear  shade  !    May  my  Life's  day, 

Like  thine  be  nobly  blest ; 
That  when  the  summons  shall  call  away, 

My  spirit  with  God  may  rest 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  57 


S^«^a^>^>r^^^M^»^i^w^^W^^ 


THE  NIGHT  STORM. 
A  FRAGMENT. 

How  mournful  sighs  the  Tempest  round,  to-night ! 
The  Storm  King  is  abroad  in  sullen  wrath, 
And  loud  his  wail  upon  the  solemn  blast ! 
It  strikes  a  sadness  to  mine  inmost  soul, 
And  fills  my  breast  with  gloom !    Though  all  within 
Looks  bright  and  cheering,  still  the  storm  without 
Howls  at  my  casement,  with  its  plaintive  tone, 
And  sad  despondence  weighs  upon  my  heart ! 

How  fearful  must  this  night  wind's  piteous  moan 
Strike  on  the  blood-stained  murderer's  startled  ear! 
While  wakening  Memory  whispers  in  his  breast, 
And  Fancy  paints  his  victim's  awful  form. 
His  shrinking  soul  will  deem  that  demons  call, 
And  beckon  him  away  to  waiting  doom  ! 

Oh  !  ever,  when  the  Tempest  roams  thus  wild, 
And  moans  and  sighs  throughout  the  live-long  night, 
It  frights  my  Conscience  from  her  soft  repose, 
And  rouses  her  to  action  :    Then  in  turn 
Will  she  present  in  black  array  my  sins. 
And  fling  my  past  transgressions  in  my  teeth  ! 
'T  is  ever  thus,  the  Storm  Sprite's  solemn  voice 
Will  rouse  her  from  her  rest,  though  deep  it  be  : 
Nor  will  she  slumber  in  repose  again. 
Till  reformation  's  promised,  and  once  more, 
Paths  long  forsaken  be  again  re-trod  ! 


'S3 


53  FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


TAKE  UP  THY  CROSS. 

If  any  man  will  come  after  me,  let  him  deny  bimBclf,  and  take 
up  his  cross,  and  follow  me." — Matt.  xvi.  24. 

Take  up  thy  cross  !  the  Saviour  said, 
If  thou  would'st  my  disciple  be  : 

Take  up  thy  cross,  with  willing  heart, 
And  humbly  follow  after  me. 

Take  up  thy  cross  !  let  not  its  weight 
Fill  thy  weak  soul  with  vain  alarm  ; 

His  strength  shall  bear  thy  spirit  up, 
And  brace  thy  heart,  and  nerve  thine  arm. 

Take  up  thy  cross  !  nor  heed  the  shame, 
And  let  thy  foolish  pride  be  still : 

Thy  Lord  refused  not  e'en  to  die 
Upon  a  cross,  on  Calvary's  hill. 

Take  up  thy  cross,  then,  in  His  strength, 
And  calmly  Sin's  wild  deluge  brave  : 

'T  will  guide  thee  to  a  better  home. 
It  points  to  glory  o'er  the  grave. 

Take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  on, 
Nor  think  till  death  to  lay  it  down  ; 

For  only  he  who  bears  the  cross, 
May  hope  to  wear  the  glorious  crown  ! 


^* 


52 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  59 


EPITAPH. 

The  following  epitaph  was  written  for  a  double  tomb-stone, 
placed  at  the  ^ave  of  two  little  brothers,  who  died  suddenly. 
After  the  death  of  the  eldest,  the  grief  of  the  other  was  inconsol- 
able. "  Place  me  in  a  coffin,"  said  he,  "  and  let  me  go  to  my 
brother." 

Hand  clasped  in  hand,  along  Life's  morning  path 
The  brothers  wandered.    Soon  the  eager  Foe 
Stole  on  their  footsteps,  and,  with  cruel  grasp, 
Bore  one  resistless  to  the  silent  tomb. 
The  wail  of  Childhood,  of  its  joy  bereft, 
Smote  on  the  Tyrant's  ear.    He  paused,  he  turned, 
He  pitied— and  the  parted  playmates  met ! 


^% 


GO 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


'^ 


^• 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  A  SOLITARY  GRAVE. 

It  was  an  unknown  grave,  in  a  sweet  retired  spot ;  and  the  simple 
epitaph  only  told  that  it  was  the  "  resting'  place  of  a  Chrisiiaa." 

Sweet,  though  narrow  is  his  bed, 
Where  he  rests  from  mortal  woe  : 

Gently,  stranger,  softly  tread, 
For  a  Christian  sleeps  below. 

'T  is  no  place  for  lamentation  ; 

Dry  at  once  the  falling  tear ; 
Hope  may  whisper  consolation, 

For  a  Christian  slumbers  here. 

Here  no  tempest-clouds  are  driven, 

To  disturb  the  solemn  gloom  ; 
But  the  straying  winds  of  heaven 

Whisper  round  the  hallowed  tomb. 

Weep  not,  then,  in  idle  sorrow ; 

Mourn  not,  then,  the  sainted  dead ! 
Faith  may  resignation  boiTow 

O'er  the  happy  Christian's  bed. 

It  were  worth  a  world  like  this, 

All  its  pomp  and  all  its  pride, 
All  its  fancied  wealth  and  bliss, 

To  be  sleeping  by  his  side. 

When  in  death  our  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  on  time  we  close  our  eyes, 

Stranger  !  may  we  sleep  like  him, 
And  with  him  in  joy  arise  ! 


a^ 


K- 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  61 


WHEN  IN  FOND  MEMORY'S  MAGIC  GLASS. 

When  in  fond  Memory's  magic  glass, 

With  earnest  eye  intent  we  gaze, 
And  there  in  quick  succession  pass 

The  buried  joys  of  former  days ; 
We  read  Life's  folded  leaves  again, 

Scenes  that  of  erst  we  loved  so  well, 
When  young  Love  wove  his  flowery  chain, 

And  Hope  her  magic  spell. 

And  Childhood's  happy  home  is  there, 

And  Childhood's  free  and  blithesome  hours ; 
Again  we  prove  a  mother's  care, 

'Neath  young  Life's  radiant  morning  bowers ; 
A  reverend  father  bows  him  then, 

Fervent  his  gladsome  child  to  bless ; 
Brothers  and  sisters  join  again 

In  Love's  endeared  caress. 

Then,  when  Time  rolls  his  years  along, 

We  rove  the  flowery  paths  of  youth  j 
We  list  to  Hope's  delusive  song, 

And  deem  her  golden  promise  truth  : 
Bright  beam  the  skies  above  our  head, 

Fair  are  the  vales  beneath  our  feet- 
Onward  we  rush  with  eager  tread, 

To  scenes  with  joy  replete. 


62 


^^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


The  dead — the  dead — the  peaceful  dead, 

Come  crowding  from  the  spirit  land ! 
Again  we  list  the  well  known  tread, 

Again  we  grasp  the  friendly  hand ; 
We  gaze  on  each  familiar  face, 

Loved  in  our  early  hour  of  pride ; 
And,  joyous  in  the  fond  embrace, 

We  deem  they  have  not  died  ! . 

Thus,  when  in  Memory's  magic  glass, 

With  lingering  glance  we  fondly  gaze. 
And  there  in  quick  succession  pass 

The  loved,  the  lost,  of  other  days  ; 
Again  we  live  those  seasons  fair, 

And  love  those  scenes  we  loved  so  well ; 
And  weep  when  Earth's  returning  care 

Has  broke  the  spirit-spell ! 


s- 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  63 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Happy  dreamer !    Sleep  hath  lightlj 

O'er  thee  flung  her  soothing  spell : 
And  the  orbs  which  shone  so  brightly, 

'Neath  their  curtains  slumber  well. 
But  perchance  thy  Fancy  rovest 

Where  thy  footsteps  love  to  stray, 
With  the  little  friend  thou  lovest, 

Mid  the  butterflies  at  play. 

• 

Ha  !  a  smile  of  beaming  pleasure — 

Hast  thou  caught  the  fairy  thing  ? 
Dear  one,  gently  clasp  thy  treasure, 

Lest  thou  harm  his  silken  wing : 
See,  he  struggles  :  soft  winds  straying 

Woo  him  with  their  balmy  flow, 
Where  his  joyous  mates  are  playing — • 

Prythee,  let  the  captive  go  ! 

Still  thou  smilest  in  thy  dreaming : 

Have  thy  footsteps  sought  the  vale. 
Where  the  leaping  brook  is  gleaming, 

Babbling  wild  its  frolic  tale  1 
See,  its  lingering  waves  invite  thee — 

Simple  child,  they  will  not  stay  : 
Thus  will  Life's  wild  hopes  delight  thee, 

Bright,  and  false,  and  fleet  as  they. 


■^^ 


64 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


S3 


Now  thy  laugh  is  wild  resounding  : 

Reckless  of  the  streamlet's  glide, 
O'er  the  velvet  turf  thou  'rt  bounding, 

Seeking  where  the  violets  hide : 
Pretty  roamer,  with  thy  blossom 

Hie  thee  homeward,  o'er  the  plain ; 
For  thy  mother's  anxious  bosom 

Yearns  to  clasp  her  child  again  ! 

Fare  thee  well !    May  God  direct  thee 

Wheresoe'er  thy  feet  may  stray  : 
Ever  may  his  love  protect  thee 

All  along  Life's  devious  way  ! 
And  when  thou  in  Death  shalt  slumber, 

All  Earth's  cares  and  sorrows  o'er, 
May  thy  ransomed  spirit  wander 

Joyous,  on  a  happier  shore  ! 


,K- 


} 

'33 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  65 


CHRISTMAS. 

'T  WAS  Night  upon  Judea :  all  was  hushed : 
And  in  her  peerless  capital  the  hum 
Of  varied  voices,  and  the  bustling  tread" 
Of  busy  footsteps  long  had  died  away: 
Silence  sat  brooding  upon  town  and  tower ; 
The  flocks  and  herds  had  sought  their  peaceful 

rest; 
And  Night's  broad  mantle  wrapped  Judea's  realm. 

'T  was  Night:  but  though  unconscious  Earth  did 
sleep, 
The  courts  of  Heaven,  that  never  know  repose, 
Were  doubly  wakeful  with  angelic  joy  ! 
For  never  since  the  glad  Creation's  morn 
Was  night  so  pregnant  of  such  high  events : 
For  He,  whom  ancient  prophets  long  foretold 
Should  come — ^Jehovah's  well-beloved  Son, 
Who  filled  in  highest  Heaven  the  second  throne — 
In  human  nature's  humblest  mien  should  come, 
The  Great  Messiah  of  his  chosen  race, 
And  only  Saviour  of  a  ruined  world — 
This  very  night  should  be  of  woman  bom  ! 

Night  waned  apace  ;  and  in  the  distant  East, 
Where  Magi  studied  their  mysterious  lore, 
A  star  arose,  of  strange,  unusual  light, 
And  slowly,  westward,  took  its  flaming  way ! 
The  wondering  Sages,  filled  with  holy  fear. 


F  UGI TIVE     POEMS. 


j66 

< 
Girt  up  their  loins,  quick  bound  their  sandals  on, 

And,  taught  by  some  unknown,  directing  power, 
Followed,  with  willing  steps,  the  guiding  star ! 

'Twas  Midnight's  hourj  and  on  fair  Bethlehem's 

plainS 
The  wakeful  shepherds  watched   their   sleeping 

flocks. 
'T  was  silent  all,  save  the  far  streamlet's  sound, 
And  the  light  whisper  of  the  passing  breeze  ! 
Then  lo  !  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  came  down. 
And  heavenly  glory  beamed  upon  their  sight ! 
The  simple  shepherds  shrunk  away  in  fear. 
And  prostrate  fell :    "  Fear  not !  "  the  spirit  said, 
"  For  tidings  of  great  joy  to  you  I  bring, 
And  all  mankind.    The  promised  Christ  is  born  ! 
In  David's  city  ye  the  babe  shall  find, 
In  manger  lying,  clad  in  mean  attire  ! " 
Then  suddenly  appeared  a  heavenly  host, 
And  shouted  "  Glory  to  the  Highest,  God — 
Peace  upon  Earth — good  will  to  all  mankind  ! " 


^S^ 


Thus  was  the  time  which  drew  a  Saviour  down ; 
Such  was  the  Night  on  which  our  King  was  born ! 
Long  hath  His  Church  the  festal  day  revered. 
And  sung  Hosannas  to  the  prince  of  Peace  ! 
"T  is  meet  the  birth-day  of  the  King  of  Kings 
Should  thus  be  honored  by  his  ransomed  train  ! 
'T  is  meet  to  deck  his  courts  with  signs  of  joy, 
And  press  the  altar's  steps  with  willing  feet : 


And  while  the  old  aisles  ring  with  sacred  praise, 
And  the  loud  anthem  peals  its  swelling  note, 
Thus  be  the  tribute  of  our  grateful  heart : 

Thou,  who  didst  come  to  save  ! 
To  take  upon  thee  all  our  mortal  woe, 
And  suffer  death  in  love  for  man  below, 

And  triumph  o'er  the  grave — 

List  to  the  song  we  raise  ! 
We  bless  thee  for  thy  love's  transcending  care, 
That  thou  didst  deign  to  leave  thy  glories  fair, 

In  worlds  of  heavenly  praise  ! 

Saviour  !  be  thou  our  friend  ! 
Guide  us  in  mercy  o'er  Life's  changing  path  : 
In  mercy  shield  from  every  storm  of  wrath, 

Till  Life's  sad  conflict  end  ! 

Thus,  by  thy  succor  blest, 
Let  us  abide,  while  mortal  life  remains; 
Then  may  the  star  which  'lumined  Bethlehem's 
plains 

Guide  to  thy  heavenly  rest ! 


?9 


68 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


ELEGIAC  HYMN. 

Sister  !  thy  loved  form  is  lying 
Peaceful  in  the  grave's  still  gloom ; 

And  the  mourning  winds  are  sighing 
Sadly  o'er  thy  lowly  tomb.  ^ 

Life  was  opening  gay  before  thee, 
Wooing  to  its  wearying  roam  ; 

Bright  the  skies  were  beaming  o'er  thee, 
When  thy  Maker  called  thee  home. 

By  no  terror  w^ast  thou  shaken. 
When  thy  spirit  might  not  stay ; 

Like  some  flower,  by  Spring  forsaken, 
Thou  didst  fade  in  death  away. 

Sister  !  while  our  hearts  deplore  thee. 
Once  the  loveliest  of  our  band. 

We  may  trust  that  Mercy  bore  thee 
To  the  bright  and  better  land ! 

Though  thy  beauteous  form  reposes, 
'Neath  the  cold  and  darksome  clay, 

Faith  thy  ransomed  soul  discloses 
In  the  world  of  perfect  day. 

Hope,  by  humble  Faith  attended, 
Points  to  realms  divinely  fair ; 

And  when  Life  with  us  is  ended. 
May  we  rise  and  meet  thee  there  ! 


^' 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  69} 


THE  MONARCH'S  WISH. 

••  Oh !  that  I  had  wing-s  like  a  dove !  for  then  would  1  fly  away 
and  be  at  rest.  Lo  !  then  would  i  wander  far  off,  and  remain  in 
the  wilderness."    Psalm  Iv.  6,  7. 

The  wearied  monarch  sat  apart, 

A  moment  from  his  troubles  free, 
Saddened  in  soul  and  sick  at  heart 

With  earthly  pomp  and  vanity  : 
And  while  with  burdening  cares  he  strove, 

And  griefs  were  gathering  in  his  breast, 
He  sighed  for  pinions  like  a  dove, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest. 

He  languished  for  a  calm  retreat, 

Some  far  away,  and  peaceful  shore, 
Untrodden  but  by  sinless  feet, 

Where  Earth  might  vex  his  soul  no  more. 
Hate  had  usurped  the  bower  of  Love, 

Wild  was  the  phrenzy  of  his  breast — 
And  Oh  !  for  pinions  like  a  dove. 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest. 

'T  is  thus  with  Life  !  its  best  estate 

Is  but  a  feeble  ray  of  joy  ; 
An  hour,  of  golden  hopes  elate, 

Which  hastening  clouds  and  storms  destroy; 
And  while  the  heart  reluctant  clings, 

And  woes  o'erwhelm  the  laboring  breast, 
Oh  !  for  the  turtle's  gentle  wings. 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest. 


70 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


■S3 


And  though  once  more  Life's  joys  invite 

To  sip  their  flattering  streams  of  pain, 
Who  that  has  tasted  Earth's  delight, 

Would  ever  sigh  to  taste  again  7 
Its  brightest  hopes,  its  fairest  things, 

But  serve  to  wound  the  bleeding  breast; 
Oh  !  for  the  turtle's  gentle  vvings, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest ! 

But  there  shall  come  a  sweet  release 

From  all  these  storms  that  darkly  roll ; 
And  Mercy's  voice  shall  whisper  peace 

Upon  the  tempest  of  the  soul : 
For  Death  the  envied  treasure  brings, 

And  calms  the  turmoils  of  the  breast, 
And  gives  the  spirit  deathless  wings, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest. 


u 


'S2 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  71  j 


'-^  ■; 


THANKSGIVING. 


Oh  't  is  a  joyous  thing,  in  time  like  this, 
To  mark  a  Nation  turn  with  eager  tread 
From  toil  away,  and  press  the  courts  of  God, 
With  hearts  of  high  rejoicing. 

It  is  meet, 
That  frail  dependent  creatures  should  unite 
To  bless  the  hand  that  feeds  them,^  and  supplies 
Their  every  want,  from  Mercy's  boundless  store  ! 
When  the  long  Summer,  and  its  toils  are  paist, 
"  When  Autumn's  hue  hath   tinged  the    golden  ] 

grain," 
And  the  rich  harvest  far  o'erpays  our  care, 
Oh  then  should  hymns  of  glad  Thanksgiving  rise, 
To  Him  whose  love  hath  crowned  the  closing  year, 
And  scattered  countless  blessings  in  our  path ! 

Full  well  they  knew — those  holy  men  of  old — 
Who  first  did  set  apart  this  festal  day. 
That  man  is  all  too  prone  to  share  the  gift, 
Then  quite  forget  the  Giver  who  bestows, 
And  dark  ingratitude  alone  repay  ! 
And  when  their  annual  day  of  praise  did  come, 
They  hailed  its  rising  with  a  joyful  eye. 
Sought  with  a  willing  step  the  house  of  prayer,' 


^- 


■53 


72 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


^s^*^>^^^^^^^^^ 


•'^•^'^^^'^^^•-^•^-^■^ 


i 


And  there,  and  round  their  own  homes'  cheerful 

board, 
They  counted  all  their  varied  blessino^s  o'er, 
And  offered  up  the  incense  of  the  heart ! 
But  they  no  more  will  hail  its  joyous  light, 
For  Death  has  called  those  reverend  fathers  hence, 
To  the  more  glad  Thanksgiving  of  the  skies  ! 
But  though  the  just  have  died,  their  memory  lives ; 
Their  works  of  faith  and  love  do  follow  them ; 
And  each  return  of  this  rejoicing  morn, 
Doth  sadly  whisper  of  those  pilgrim  sires ! 

Thanksgiving !  what  associations  throng 
Its  simple  mention :  friends  and  home  are  there ! 
The  distant  wanderer  turns  his  weary  step 
Back  to  the  natal  mansion  ;  and  the  lips 
Of  parents,  a'ld  the  fond  fraternal  band 
Do  bid  him  welcome  to  his  home  again  ? 
And  when  the  re-united  household  train 
Once  more  assemble  round  the  festive  board, 
What  silent  blessings  rise  from  grateful  hearts, 
That  Mercy's  angel  hath  watched  o'er  them  still. 

Soon  will  another  glad  Thanksgiving  mom 
Dawn  on  our  land  ;  and  if  we  hail  its  light, 
Let  us  be  glad  together,  and  rejoice 
With  heart-felt  gratitude  for  mercies  past ! 
For  thou  and  I,  my  brother,  from  the  time 
Our  eyes  first  opened  on  the  things  of  earth. 
Have  richly  proved  a  Heavenly  Father's  care ! 


1 


^33 

FUGITIVE     POEMS.  73 

His  hand  first  formed  us,  and  hath  still  sustained, 
Through  every  change  of  being,  until  now, 
And  with  transcendant  mercies  crowned  our  lot ! 
liCt  us  rejoice  together  in  the  love 
Of  such  a  Father,  and  improve  His  grace  ; 
That  when  our  Life's  last  sands  are  running  low, 
And  time  with  us  hath  gathered  to  its  close, 
We  may  be  guided  to  the  realms  of  bliss, 
To  join  in  one  eternal  hymn  of  praise  ! 
Hartford,  Nov.  20,  1836. 


-^ 


74 


^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


THE   FARMER,. 

How  blest  the  Farmer's  simple  life  ! 

How  pure  the  joy  it  yields  ! 
Far  from  the  world's  tempestuous  strife, 

Free  mid  the  scented  fields. 

When  Morning  woos,  with  roseate  hue, 

O'er  the  far  hills  away, 
His  footsteps  brush  the  silvery  dew, 

To  greet  the  welcoming  Day. 

Wlien  Sol's  first  beam  in  glory  glows, 
And  blithe  the  sky-lark's  song. 

Pleased,  to  his  toil  the  Farmer  goes, 
With  cheerful  steps  along. 

While  Noon  broods  o'er  the  sultry  sky, 
And  sunbeams  fierce  are  cast, 

Where  the  cool  streamlet  wanders  by, 
He  shares  his  sweet  repast. 


When  Twilight's  gentlest  shadows  fall 

Along  the  darkening  plain, 
He  lists  his  faithful  watch-dogs'  call, 

To  warn  the  listening  train. 


-22 


^' 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  75 


Down  the  green  lane  young  hurrying  feet 

Their  eager  pathway  press  ; 
His  loved  ones  come  in  joy  to  greet, 

And  claim  their  sire's  caress. 

Then  when  the  evening  prayer  is  said, 
And  Heaven  with  praise  is  blest, 

How  sweet  reclines  his  weary  head 
On  slumber's  couch  of  rest! 

Nor  deem  that  fears  his  dreams  alarm, 

Nor  cares  with  carking  din  : 
Without  his  dogs  will  guard  from  harm, 

And  all  is  peace  within. 

Oh,  ye  who  run  in  folly's  race, 

To  win  a  worthless  prize  ! 
Learn  from  the  simple  tale  we  trace, 

Where  true  contentment  lies ! 

Ho !  Monarch  !  flushed  with  glory's  pride ! 

Thou  pamted,  gilded  thing  ! 
Hie  to  the  free-born  Farmer's  side, 

And  learn  to  be  a  king ! 


^- 


THE  VETERAN. 


I  MARKED  him,  mid  the  household  train  ;3 

'T  was  Winter's  rule  of  blight : 
But  Gladness  held  her  jocund  reign 

Around  the  hearth  at  night ! 
And  Pleasure,  in  that  old  man's  eye, 

Would  cheering  glee  impart ; 
For  Joy's  bright  sunshine  seemed  to  lie 

All  tranquil  o'er  his  heart ! 

He  told  old  tales  of  days  agone, 

How  erst  a  Nation's  might 
Girt  the  red  sword  of  battle  on, 

For  Freedom  and  for  Right : 
And  he  had  stood  in  danger's  path, 

When  fierce  the  contest  grew  : 
Where  the  cannon  spoke  its  sulphury  wrath. 

And  thick  the  death-shots  flew  ! 

And  when  the  crimson  strife  was  o'er — 
War  smoothed  her  visage  grim — 

Then  wild,  from  Freedom's  farthest  shore, 
Arose  their  triumph-hymn : 


i. 
} 

'S2 


K' 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  77  s^ 

And  the  old  man's  heart,  with  a  patriot's  pride, 

Would  swell  as  he  told  it  o'er, 
When  he  thought  how  his  brave  companions  died, 

And  the  green  earth  drank  their  gore  ! 


1  marked  him  mid  a  careless  throng, 

Where  Childhood's  laugh  rung  high ; 
And  the  old  man  smiled  to  hear  the  song 

Of  gay  ones  bounding  by  : 
But  I  saw  how  he  strove  with  a  gathering  gloom, 

And  I  saw  that  his  eye  had  wept : 
For  his  memory  roved  by  a  grassy  tomb, 

Where  his  loved  companion  slept ! 


I  marked  him  on  the  day  of  God  ; 

The  church-bells  called  to  prayer : 
With  a  cheerful  step  the  veteran  trod, 

To  lay  his  offering  there  ! 
And  I  knew  by  the  smile  on  his  furrowed  brow, 

When  his  hymn  of  praise  was  given, 
That  his  heart  had  forgotten  its  cares  below, 

And  his  treasure  was  laid  in  Heaven  I 

But  Time  passed  on  in  silent  course — 

'T  was  Summer's  golden  reign  ; 
How  meet  that  the  reapers  should  hasten  forth. 

To  gather  the  ripened  grain  ! 


^^ 


78 


FU  GITIVE      POEMS. 


X^*^^^»^Ni^ 


An  Angel  came,  with  a  muffled  tread, 
And  a  smile  in  his  glorious  eye ; 

And  the  old  man  bowed  his  reverend  head, 
And  laid  him  down  to  die  ! 


^S2 


K- 


FUOITIVE     POEMS.  79 


SONGS  OF  EVENING. 


'T  is  sweet  when  daily  labor  o'er, 

And  all  is  calm  and  free, 
To  tread  old  Ocean's  sounding  shore. 

And  list  the  murmuring  sea ; 

To  catch  the  low  wind's  funeral  sigh 
Above  where  thousands  sleep — 

And  hear  the  sea-bird's  lonely  cry 
Upon  the  far-off  deep  ! 

And  when  on  Death's  dim,  shadowy  shore. 
At  Life's  faint  twilight  driven — 

Calm  let  us  view  the  waters  o'er, 
And  boldly  launch  for  Heaven  ! 


IL 


*Tis  sweet  at 'evening's  tranquil  hour. 
When  all  is  hushed  and  still, 

To  seek  some  favorite  haunt  or  bower. 
And  muse  at  silent  will. 


}80 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


No  doubts  distract — no  fears  annoy, 

To  vex  the  peaceful  breast ; 
But  all  is  pure  and  quiet  joy, 

Mid  slumbering  Nature's  rest 

And  oh,  when  earthly  care  shall  cease, 

At  Life's  still  evening-close. 
How  sweet  to  leave  Earth's  bowers  in  peace, 

For  Heaven's  secure  repose  ! 

No  more  to  sigh  'neath  Grief's  control— 
From  friends  no  more  to  sever ! 

While  the  celestial  ages  roll 
For  ever,  and  for  ever ! 


gg^ 


^22 


t 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  81 


SONNETS— TO  JAMES  DIXON, 
Author  of  **  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  and  Winter  Sonnets.' 


Bard  of  the  pleasant  lyre ;  where'er  thy  strain 

Breaks  on  the  stillness  of  the  listening  air; 
Whether  in  Spring-time,  o'er  the  grassy  plain, 

With  careless  step  you  rove,  mid  flowrets  fair ; 
Whether  through  Summer's  fervid  walks  you  stray, 
And  mark  the  waters  and  the  winds  at  play ; 

Whether  mid  Autumn's  stores  of  ripening  gold 
Thou  revest,  pensive,  mid  the  dying  flowers  ; 

Or  Winter  calls  thee,  with  his  voices  cold, 
To  muse,  instructed,  'mong  tlie  leafless  bowers ; 
My  heart  is  with  thee :    Through  the  joyous  hours 

I  roam,  with  thee,  o'er  scenes  so  proudly  told ! 
By  brook,  by  glen,  on  mountain-top  I  stand  ; 

Turns  my  fond  soul  to  thee,  and  my  loved  Father- 
land! 


^^flf*^»^\^»^%»^^» 


» 

• 


K' 


S3 


82 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


II. 


Dixon  !  our  own  New  England  clime  is  fair, 

And  happy  faces  glad  its  pleasant  vales ; 
And  voices  whisper  on  its  haunted  air, 
Where  olden  memories  breathe  their  hallowed 
tales ! 
But  come,  my  friend,  and  rove  awhile  with  me, 
And  Southern  scenes  shall  spread  a  feast  for  thee  ! 
The  Bard  is  Nature's  priest:  where'er  she  reigns, 
There  may  he  find  an  altar ;  and  his  soul 

May  offer  up  its  incense  !    Seek  the  plains 
Where  the  bright  South  doth  woo  with  sweet  con- 
trol : 
Here  noble  hearts  will   cheer  us,   while  the 
strains 
Of  warbling  birds,  more  sweet  than  notes  which 

stole 
From  Orpheus'  lyre,  shall  win  us,  for  a  time, 
To  linger  from  our  own  to  bless  the  Southern 
clime ! 

North  Carolina,  Ang.  1639. 


■aa 


■S3 

FUGITIVE     POEMS.  83 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

Mourner  !  bending  o'er  thy  dead, 

Bowed  'neath  Sorrow's  galling  chain, 
Raise  in  hope  thy  drooping  head, 

For  thy  child  shall  live  again  ! 
Faith  doth  point  with  cheering  ray 

Far  from  doubt  and  low  despair ; 
And  thy  child  in  realms  of  day. 

Reigns  in  deathless  glory  there  ! 

Beauty  dwelt  upon  his  brow — 

Deem  not  thou  his  brow  is  faded : ' 
Gladness  dwelt  within  his  eye — 

Deem  not  that  its  light  is  shaded : 
For  that  eye,  for  ever  bright, 

Sparkles  as  the  radiant  gem, 
And  that  brow,  in  worlds  of  light, 

Wears  a  Seraph's  diadem ! 

Spring  shall  strew  her  honors  fair 

Where  his  form  is  lowly  laid  : 
Loveliest  flowers  shall  linger  there. 

First  to  bloom,  and  last  to  fade  ! 
There  shall  wandering  children  stray, 

And  his  grave  be  kindly  drest ; 
There  shall  smile  the  parting  day, 

There  shall  moonbeams  love  to  rest. 


84 


■n 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


^^^t^t^l^l^»^l^^«^l^l^i^l^«^«^l^i^l^lM^«^N^«^«^M 


Mourner !  weep  not  then  in  sorrow, 

O'er  thy  cherished  idol  slain ; 
Meekly  resignation  borrow, 

For  thine  infant  lives  again  ! 
Bow  thee  to  the  will  of  God, 

While  the  day  of  time  is  given  : 
Then  when  Life's  short  path  be  trod, 

Thou  Shalt  meet  thy  child  in  Heaven. 


K- 


'2S 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  85* 


BIRTH-DAY  VERSES. 


••A  birth-day  !  tis  a  mournful  theme 
To  one  whose  hopes  are  fled ; 

"Whose  spirit,  like  a  faded  dream, 
Lies  desolate  and  dead." 


Oh  Time  !  I  will  not  beg  the  boon 
That  thou  shouldst  linger  on  thy  track, 

To  stay  my  Manhood's  hastening  noon, 
Or  turn  my  dial's  shadow  back ! 

Should  I  the  humblest  wish  e'en  crave, 
Thou  couldst  not  heed  my  mournful  cry : 

For  thou  art  but  a  vassal  slave, 
And  thou  thyself,  Oh  Time,  shalt  die  ! 

Then  speed  thee  on  thine  eager  flight. 

Regardless  all  of  mortal  care  ; 
And  while  I  bow  in  suppliant  plight. 

Thy  God  and  mine  shall  hear  my  prayer ! 

Aye,  speed  thy  course  !    For  what  is  Life  1 
A  sunburst,  chased  by  gathering  gloom ; 

A  Meeting  hour  of  wildering  strife; 
Gc,  read  its  record  on  the  tomb ! 


86  FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


Alone  I  rove  !  a  joyous  throng 

Once  with  me  pressed  Life's  opening  bower ; 
And  gaily  rose  tlie  blithesome  song, 

And  Gladness  led  the  jocund  hour. 

Ah  !  whither  fled  1    Go,  ask  of  Death  ! 

Where  lurks  the  Morning's  roseate  beam  7 
Gone— like  the  vapor's  fleeting  breath, 

Gone — like  the  sleeper's  changing  dream ! 

Where,  where  hath  Hope,  the  charmer,  flown. 
Who  sang  beside  Life's  paths  so  gay  1 

When  chill  Misfortune's  blasts  were  blown, 
The  bird-like  music  died  away ! 

And  what  is  love  1    A  fitful  flame, 

Too  oft  expiring  in  its  birth  : 
Friendship  1    Alas  !  a  gilded  name, 

To  cheat  the  trusting  ones  of  Earth ! 

And  what  is  Pleasure's  boasted  show  7 

Go,  ask  of  Folly's  languid  slave  I 
'T  is  but  a  meteor's  sickly  glow, 

O'er  a  lone  pathway  to  the  grave ! 

Oh  Life  !  is  this  thy  palsying  blight? 

Is  such  the  path  by  mortals  trod  7 
Then  speed,  Oh  Time,  thy  hastening  flight, 

And  I  will  bend  the  knee  to  God  ! 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


87 


-33 


Pass  on  !  pass  on  !  by  Earth  unblest ! 

Faith  points  to  Heaven's  eternal  shore: 
There  shall  the  weary  pilgrim  rest, 

When  Time  and  Death  shall  be  no  more ! 


K- 


S2 


cs- 


88 


-3:9 


FU  GITI  VB     POEMS. 


"AS  THY  DAY  IS,  SO  SHALL  THY  STRENGTH  BE." 

Mariner,  on  Life's  dark  sea, 

Seeking  for  some  distant  shore, 
From  the  waves  of  trouble  free, 

Where  the  tempest  comes  no  more ; 
Hush  thy  wild  complaint  of  woe  ! 

Lo !  the  Master's  promise  free  ! 
"  As  thy  day  of  life  below, 

So  thy  strength  shall  also  be !  " 

Pilgrim  in  Life's  vale  of  tears, 

Fainting  'neath  thy  wearying  roam ; 
Seeking  through  the  mournful  years 

For  a  city  yet  to  come  ; 
Give  thy  doubtings  o'er  at  last, 

Here  the  gracious  promise  see ! 
«  As  thy  day  of  life  is  cast, 

So  thy  strength  shall  also  be ! " 

Mourner  on  Life's  desert  plain, 

Nought  around  thy  way  to  cheer; 
Sorrowing  in  a  night  of  pain, 

'T  ill  the  morning  light  appear ; 
Lo !  the  beacon-star  of  Heaven  ! 

Cheering  hope  it  brings  to  thee  ! 
"  As  thy  day  of  life  is  given. 

So  thy  strength  shall  also  be !  •'* 


-^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  89 


SONG. 


Lore  not  the  world,  neither  the  things  that  are  in  the  world. 

I.  JoAn,  ii.  15. 


While  earth  invites  thee, 
And  its  pomp  delights  thee, 

Turn  thou  away ; 
For  the  clouds  of  sorrow, 
Will  gloom,  ere  the  morrow, 

Life's  fitful  day. 

n. 

Turn  then  thy  wandering  feet^ 
From  all  its  glories  fleet, 

While  time  is  given  ! 
In  blissful  Hope  rejoice, 
While  Mercy's  cheering  voice 

Calls  thee  to  Heaven  ! 


-33 


90 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BACON. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  while  yet  I  hear 

Thy  kindly  voice's  farewell  tone,* 
Thou  sleepest  with  the  slumbering  year, 

And  Wintry  winds  above  thee  moan  : 
Gone  with  thy  genius'  kindling  fire — 

Thy  Manhood's  glorious  promise  vain : 
And  I  must  tune  my  mournful  lyre, 

To  breathe  for  thee  a  funeral  strain ! 

Ah  !  feebly  roams  my  hand  along, 

O'er  trembling  chords  to  sadness  strung ; 
For  thee,  thou  child  of  joyous  song, 

How  can  the  solemn  dirge  be  sung  1 
Full  oft  my  lyre  its  notes  of  woe 

Hath  waked,  when  griefs  my  soul  would  bend 
How  shall  I  bid  its  numbers  flow 

For  thee,  my  best,  familiar  friend ! 


Thou  art  not  dead  !  I  see  thee  still ! 

For  Memory  wakes  her  magic  power ; 
Again  we  climb  the  wooded  hill, 

Or  seek  the  valley's  vine-clad  bower : 
Now  by  the  wild  brook's  prattling  stream 

We  rove,  with  careless  spirits  blest ; 
Or  watch  the  day-god's  parting  gleam 

Gush  from  the  chambers  of  the  west ! 


-23 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  91 

'T  is  noontide  in  the  leafy  June ! 

Beneath  some  tall  tree's  fragrant  shade, 
Where  soft  winds  breathe  a  whispered  tune, 

Our  forms  along  the  turf  are  laid  : 
And  there,  while  griefs  and  cares  retire, 

And  we  in  peace,  alone,  recline, 
Thou  kindly  list'st  my  simple  lyre, 

And  I  do  joyous  list  to  thine  ! 

The  Autumn's  pensive  days  have  come. 

And  Death  o'er  Nature's  bloom  hath  past ; 
Among  the  funeral  woods  we  roam. 

Where  leaves  are  rustling  on  the  blast : 
And  while  the  breeze  goes  wailing  by, 

And  trees  their  leafless  branches  wave, 
We  muse  how  Life's  bright  hopes  must  die, 

And  man  lie  slumbering  in  the  grave  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  and  thou  art  dead  ! 

The  friend  so  true — beloved  so  well ! 
While  hope  her  wildest  visions  spread — 

Fond  Memory  !  cease  thy  magic  spell ! 
There  's  gloom  along  thy  mountain's  side, 

And  by  thy  free  brook's  pebbly  shore  : 
There  's  sadness  in  thy  Summer's  pride, 

For  thou,  my  friend,  wilt  come  no  more  ! 

And  thou  didst  die  in  Manhood's  prime, 
From  home  and  fond  delights  away  : 

While  I  beneath  a  distant  clime, 
Was  doomed  in  loneliness  to  stray ! 


92 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


I  might  not  mark  thy  gathering  care, 
When  sickness,  lone,  thy  form  did  bow  ; 

Nor  cheer  thy  sorrowing  heart's  despair, 
Nor  wipe  the  death-damp  from  thy  brow ! 

And  thou  dost  sleep  that  hanowea  sieep 

Which  Earth  may  ne'er  disturb  again  : 
No  more  thy  sorrowing  eye  shall  weep, 

No  more  thy  bosom  throb  with  pain ! 
And  oft  at  Morn,  at  Noon,  and  Eve, 

With  pensive  steps  will  mourners  come, 
Alone,  o'er  buried  hopes  to  grieve. 

And  weep  above  thy  narrow  home  ! 

But  now,  farewell !  hard — hard  to  speak, 

To  one  of  heart  so  true  as  thine : 
These  flowing  tears  adown  my  cheek, 

Too  well  attest  the  grief  of  mine  ! 
In  yon  bright  Heaven  a  glorious  rest 

We  trust  henceforth  pertains  to  thee  ; 
But  the  cold  turf  which  wraps  thy  breast 

Is  all  that  now  remains  to  me. 

North  CaroUaa,  Jan.  1839. 


K- 


22 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  93 


REST,  SOLDIER,  REST. 
Imitated  from  the  "  Rest,  Warrior,  Rest,"  of  Dibdin, 

His  trials  are  o'er,  and  his  conflict  is  done, 

His  battle  is  fought,  and  his  victory  won ; 

He  lays  by  the  harness  which  girded  his  breast, 

And  turns  him  away  for  the  conqueror's  rest ! 

Bravely  the  foemen  he  quelled  in  his  might, 

For  his  Captain  was  near  in  the  deadliest  fight ; 

But  the  shadows  of  Death  gather  thick  o'er  his 

eye, 
And  the  war-weary  veteran  has  turned  him  to  die  ! 

Rest,  Soldier,  Rest ! 

His  trials  are  o'er,  and  his  labors  are  done, 
His  battle  is  fought,  and  his  victory  won  : 
He  shall  slumber  secure  from  his  mightiest  foes. 
Nor  the  din  of  the  conflict  disturb  his  repose  : 
Till  the  last  trumpet's  warning  shall  bid  him  arise. 
And  his  Captain  in  triumph  returns  from  the  skies; 
Then  joyfully  go  at  the  glad  summons  given, 
To  rest  on  the  fields  of  his  conquest  in  Heaven ! 

Rest,  Soldier,  rest ! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  PEACE. 


-es- 


Awake,  my  harp,  to  heavenly  lays ! 
Strike  to  the  Great  Redeemer's  praise 

Who  left  the  highest  place 
In  glory,  by  His  Father's  throne, 
And  came,  a  stranger,  and  alone, 

To  save  our  fallen  race  ! 

What  nobler  theme  commands  thy  song  1 
It  might  delight  an  Angel's  tongue 

To  dwell  on  one  like  this : 
Then  let  it  all  my  soul  inspire ; 
Be  it  my  holiest  heart's  desire 

To  praise  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 

He  saw  me  held  in  Satan's  thrall, 
He  saw  me  drink  his  bitter  gall, 

To  win  a  burning  wreath : 
Kindly  he  broke  my  master's  chain, 
And  led  me  from  the  hellish  train, 

And  snatched  my  soul  from  death ! 

He  saw  me  far  from  glory  stray, 

He  saw  me  tread  that  downward  way, 

That  leads  to  endless  woe  : 
Gently  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  pointed  to  the  happy  land 

Where  all  the  righteous  go  ! 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


95 


lie  saw  me  black  and  vile  within, 
He  saw  me  captive  led  by  sin, 

Far  from  the  path  to  Heaven  : 
Softly  he  bade  my  sorrows  cease, 
He  whispered  to  my  conscience  "  peace  ! " 

And  spoke  my  sins  "  forgiven  ! " 


a 


Rt- 


96 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


WHEN  FROM  THOSE  WE  LOVE  WE  PART. 


When  from  those  we  love  we  part, 

And  the  spirit  bows  in  sadness, 
What  can  cheer  the  drooping  heart, 

What  can  breathe  of  joy  and  gladness? 
Only  Hope  presents  the  balm, 

When  with  sad  farewell  we  greet  them ; 
Only  Hope  the  breast  can  calm, 

Whispering,  we  again  may  meet  them ! 

When  from  those  we  love  we  part, 

Whom  the  hand  of  Death  surprises, 
What  can  cheer  the  breaking  heart. 

While  the  bursting  sob  arises  1 
Holy  Hope,  beside  us  there, 

With  the  Page  of  heavenly  story, 
Points  to  homes  divinely  fair, 

Distant  in  the  realms  of  glory  I 


I 


FUGITIVE      POEMS.  97 


THE  RUIN. 

I  STOOD  within  an  ancient  pile, 
From  bustling  haunts  of  men  away, 

Where  mouldering  arch  and  broken  aisle 
Told  of  the  empire  of  decay  I 

Alas  !  no  more  these  sacred  halls 
Might  list  the  anthem's  echoing  tone ; 

The  ivy  climbed  the  crumbling  walls, 
The  lone  owl  mocked  the  sad  wind's  moan ! 

'T  was  Night's  calm  hour — and  softly  fell 
O'er  Nature's  breast  the  moonbeams  bright : 

E'en  the  gray  ruin  owned  the  spell. 
All  flooded  in  the  silvery  light  I 

Entranced  I  mused :  an  Angel  throng 
Came  gathering  on  the  haunted  air ; 

Again  I  heard  the  choral  song, 
Again  I  heard  the  murmured  prayer ! 

Oh  when  the  toilsome  day  hath  fled, 
With  all  its  cares  and  all  its  pain — 

How  sweet  to  call  the  slumbering  dead 
Back  to  the  scenes  of  Earth  again ! 


<98 


FUGITIVE      POEMS. 


The  breast  forgets  its  griefs  at  last — 
No  more  the  mournful  tear  will  start ; 

And  Time  flits  all  unheeded  past 
The  bright  Elysium  of  the  heart  I 


Night  waned  apace :  the  echoed  sound 
Of  footsteps  met  my  startled  ear ; 

I  sought  the  Temple's  shadowy  bounds 
Some  other  wanderer  lingered  near. 

A  stranger  came  ;  his  wildered  eye 
Told  of  a  heart  which  griefs  had  known ; 

His  bosom  heaved  the  quivering  sigh, 
And  Sadness  marked  his  murmured  moan. 

He  seemed  like  one.  grown  old  with  care, 
While  Youth  was  loitering  on  his  way — 

Wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  Despair, 
While  Life  yet  wooed  with  splendors  gay. 

As  some  tired  dancer,  when  the  night 
Wears  long,  from  Beauty's  beaming  smile 

Goes  forth  beneath  the  Moon's  calm  light, 
To  breathe  the  scented  air  awhile : 


U: 


So  he  appeared,  from  revels  gay, 
Where  late  at  Pleasure's  shrine  he  prest, 

To  turn  with  lingering  steps  away, 
In  silent  converse  with  his  breast. 


■Wt 


-S3 

FUGITIVE     POEMS.  99 


The  stranger  paused  :  o'er  all  the  scene 
He  gazed  in  solemn  awe  awhile — 

Then  passed  with  sad  and  hurried  mein, 
And  trod  adown  the  lengthening  aisle. 

Near  by  a  tomb  whose  mournful  care 
Told  where  some  weary  sleeper  lay, 

He  knelt  in  lowly  suppliance  there, 
In  the  broad  moonbeams'  streaming  ray. 

His  locks  strayed  wildly  o'er  his  brow  ; 

His  clasping  hands  were  fiercely  prest ; 
While  sobs  proclaimed,  with  mm-muring  woe. 

The  anguish  of  his  heaving  breast. 

A  softening  calmness  o'er  him  stole, 
Like  sunlight,  at  the  tempest's  close ;  ' 

All  tranquil  grew  his  troubled  soul. 
And  thus  his  burdening  prayer  arose  : 

"  Oh  Father  !  through  a  world  of  care, 
Behold,  thy  suppliant  roams  unblest; 

My  spirit  bows  to  stern  despair, 
And  griefs  afflict  my  laboring  breast. 

"  Lo  !  to  thy  gracious  throne  I  come  ; 

Deign,  deign  to  hear  my  humble  cry  ; 
No  niore  my  erring  feet  would  roam, 

No  more  from  paths  of  virtue  fly. 


"  Oh  take  the  wanderer  to  thy  love, 
For  Him  who  died  on  Calvary's  tree  : 

Then  while  throuo^h  Life's  lorn  paths  I  rove, 
My  soul  shall  find  repose  with  thee. 

"  Oh  sacred  Spirit  !  lo,  I  bend 

To  Thee  !    O'er  Time's  tempestuous  way 
Deign  Thou  to  prove  my  guiding  friend, 

And  chase  my  gathering  cares  away. 

"In  Pleasure's  sinful  paths  no  more 
I  stray,  by  Sin  and  Folly  driven  ; 

Oh  lead  me  to  yon  radiant  shore, 
Where  joys  celestial  bloom,  in  Heaven, 

"  Oh  Saviour  !  Thou  who  once  below 
Man's  sinful  nature  deign'dst  to  share, 

To  thee  I  bring  my  mournful  woe, 
Assured  Thou  wilt  not  scorn  my  prayer. 

"  By  all  Thy  love,  so  freely  shown, 
When  Thou  thyself  to  Death  did'st  give, 

Oh  !  look  from  Heaven's  eternal  throne, 
And  bid  the  trembling  sinner  live. 

"  My  panting  spirit  pines  for  rest ; 

Bend  it  obedient  to  thy  will ; 
Kind  Saviour  !  view  my  troubled  breast, 

And  bid  its  heaving  waves  be  stilL 


fS' 


I 


m- 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


101 


■n 


The  prayer  had  ceased :    The  suppUant  rose, 
And  slow  his  silent  way  re-trod : 

His  mien  confessed  that  peace  which  flows 
From  the  forgiving  grace  of  God. 

Thus  ever,  by  contrition  driven, 
When  souls  undone  their  loss  deplore  ; 

The  kind  renewing  smiles  of  Heaven 
The  moral  ruin  shall  restore  ! 


102 


'3 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


SONG  OF  THE  SYBIL. 


In  olden  time,  when  Greece  had  lost  her  sway, 
And  Rome  was  peerless  mistress  of  the  world, 
In  a  lone  spot,  in  fair  Italia's  clime, 
Upon  a  beetling  cliff's  projecting  point, 
That  high  o'erhung  a  slumbering  vale  beneath, 
A  Sybil  sat.    Wan  grief  had  marked  her  brow, 
And  Care  had  left  his  lengthened  furrows  deep ; 
Disheveled  was  her  hair,  and  her  light  robe,     «. 
In  careless  fold,  her  shrinking  form  concealed  : 
Her  eye  was  restless,  and  her  wasted  hand 
Swept  wildly  o'er  a  lyre,  beside  her  placed, 
And  thus  she  sung : 

Life  !  't  is  a  cheat ! 
For  fair  is  the  light  of  its  morning  skies, 
And  bright  are  the  hues  of  its  varying  dyes : 
But  its  splendor  is  fleet ; 
s  And  the  promising  glory  too  speedily  flies — 
s  Life !  't  is  a  cheat ! 

]  Hope  !  thou  art  vain  ! 

I  For  fond  is  thy  promise  in  young  life's  hour, 

I  And  joyous  thy  song  in  its  sun-lit  bower ; 

\  But  sorrow  and  pain 

]  Soon  sway  the  lorn  heart  with  resistless  power — 

i  Hope  !  thou  art  vain  ! 


23 


FUGITIVE    POEMS.  103 

Love  !  what  art  thou  1 
Though  ardent  awhile  thy  consuming  flame, 
And  thy  maddening  frenzy  none  can  tame — 

Yet  the  altered  brow, 
And  the  eye,  and  the  mein,  do  all  proclaim, 

Love !  what  art  thou  ! 

Friendship  deceives ! 
For  sweet  is  its  flattering  vow  of  esteem, 
To  the  youthful  heart,  as  the  joys  of  a  dream ; 

And  while  it  believes, 
And  the  promising  pleasures  realities  seem, 

Friendship  deceives ! 

Death  !  thou  art  blest ! 
For  thou  freest  the  soul  from  its  shackles  of  blight ; 
And  the  shades  of  the  good,  clad  in  garments  of  light, 

Do  joyfully  rest, 
Or  rove  the  Elysian  fields  of  delight — 

Death  1  thou  art  blest ! 


« 


104 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


'53 


FAITH. 

Faith  leaves  our  gloomy  vale  of  night, 
Shrouded  by  sin  from  glory's  ray, 

And,  rising  to  the  fields  of  light, 
Basks  in  a  rich,  eternal  day. 

Faith  calms  the  sinner^s  stubborn  will, 
When  rise  the  waves  of  guilty  pride ; 

She  worships  at  the  holy  hill 
Where  Nature's  mighty  Sovereign  died. 

When  dangers  press,  and  anxious  fear 
Sinks  the  weak  heart,  and  checks  the  strong. 

Faith,  like  a  pitying  angel,  near. 
Cheers  the  despairing  saint  along. 

And  when  Death's  whelming  surges  roll. 
And  Life's  frail  bark  to  wreck  is  driven— 

Faith  fires  the  dying  Christian's  soul, 
And  plumes  his  drooping  wing  for  Heaven  ! 


K 


ISi^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  105 


EPITAPH  FOR  AN  INDIAN  MONUMENT. 


Chieftains  of  a  vanished  race, 
In  your  ancient  buris-l  place, 5 
By  your  fathers'  ashes  blest, 
Now  in  peace  securely  rest 

Since  on  Life  ye  looked  your  last, 
Changes  o'er  your  land  have  past : 
Strangers  came  with  iron  sway, 
And  your  tribes  have  passed  away  ! 

But  your  fate  shall  treasured  be 
In  the  strangers'  memory  : 
Virtue  long  her  watch  shall  keep, 
Where  the  Red  Men's  ashes  sleep  ! 


K> 


106 


ss 


FUGITIVE      POEMS 


^^m^^^^^^^^0^^^0^0^f^^^0^^^^^^''^^0^^^^9^^^^^i^^^»^^^^^*^i^^^^^^^^^^^ 


THE  miENDS  WE  LOVED  IN  CHILDHOOD. 


A  BALLAD. 

The  friends  we  loved  in  Childhood, 

Oh,  whither  have  they  fled  7 
Beneath  the  village  churchyard, 

They  slumber  with  the  dead  ! 
In  peace  they  rest  beneath  the  sod, 

Their  earthly  labors  o'er  : 
Oh,  the  friends  that  we  loved  in  our  early  youth, 

We  shall  meet  on  earth  no  more  ! 

The  friends  we  loved  in  Childhood, 

When  Life  was  young  and  gay, 
How  blithesome  were  their  bosoms 

Throughout  the  joyous  day ; 
And  lightly  tripped  their  merry  feet 

Across  the  flowery  plain ; 
But  the  friends  that  we  loved  in  our  early  youth 

We  ne'er  shall  meet  again ! 


K' 


The  friends  we  loved  in  Childhood, 
How  fond  their  memory  seems  ! 

They  haunt  us  in  our  slumbers, 
They  whisper  in  our  dreams  ! 


S2 


11 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  107 

And  then  we  wake,  with  saddened  heart, 
To  find  our  bliss  but  vain : 
For  the  friends  that  we  loved  in  our  early  youth 
We  ne'er  shall  meet  again  1 

The  friends  we  loved  in  Childhood, 

Oh,  peaceful  be  their  rest ; 
And  green  may  be  the  willow, 

That  sighs  above  their  breast ! 
And  when  in  death  we  lowly  sleep. 

Secure  from  all  our  pain  ; 
Oh,  the  friends  that  we  loved  in  our  early  youth. 

May  we  meet  in  peace  again  ! 


S2 


108 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


THE  SKATER'S  SONG. 

Away  !  away  !  for  the  rosy  light 

Gleams  bright  o'er  the  eastern  hill ; 
The  Frost  King  came  in  a  glee  last  night, 

And  bade  the  streams  lie  still. 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  the  ice-bound  lake  ! 

No  speed  let  our  fleet  limbs  lack  ; 
And  the  slumbering  echoes  shall  startled  awake, 

As  we  dash  o'er  our  slippery  track  ! 

Away  !  away  !  't  is  a  glorious  morn, 

And  my  heart  leaps  up  to  go  ; 
The  trusty  skate  shall  bear  us  on, 

O'er  the  sleeping  wave  below  ! 
The  golden  beams  which  the  day-god  sends 

The  distant  hill-tops  lave  ; 
But  the  brightest  smile  which  his  godship  lends 

Is  his  flash  on  the  frozen  wave  ! 

Away  !  away  !  for  the  skater's  shout 

Is  ringing  along  the  air : 
The  gathering  bands  are  hastening  out, 

In  the  gladsome  sport  to  share  ! 
Oh,  there  's  never  a  tone  of  music's  own 

That  the  bounding  soul  can  feel, 
Like  the  merry  sound  of  the  crackling  ice, 

And  the  ring  of  the  skater's  steel ! 


-!a 


-2^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


109 


Then  up,  and  away  !  for  the  moments  fly  ! 

Let 's  hie  o'er  the  snow-clad  plain  ; 
For  the  joyous  streams  all  captive  lie 

In  the  frolicsome  Frost  King's  chain  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  the  ice-bound  lake  ! 

No  speed  let  our  fleet  limbs  lack ; 
And  the  slumbering  echoes  shall  shouting  awake, 

As  we  dash  o'er  our  slippery  track ! 


m 


110 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


{ 


WATCH  WITH  THE  DEAD. 


'T  IS  Death— but  not  like  Death ! 
Too  oft  the  spirit,  at  the  signal  given, 

Clings  to  its  hold  on  Life,  with  gasping  breath,  ; 
And  sob  convulsive,  till  in  terror  riven  : 
Making  its  all,  its  hope,  of  Earth,  unblest, 
Forgetful  of  the  high  and  glorious  bourne  of  rest ! 

Too  oft,  alas  !  Death's  voice 
Startles  some  Miser,  o'er  his  hoarded  gold  : 
No  more  its  light  may  bid  his  soul  rejoice, 
No  more  his  eyes  may  glut  its  wealth  untold ; 
While  the  lorn  wretch  must  lay  him  down  to  die, 
And  mourn  a  Treasure  lost,  "  which  worlds  were 
poor  to  buy  !  " 


And  oft  in  Youth's  gay  morn, 
Death  calls  away,  while  yet  the  sky  is  bright ; 
Wliile  golden  hues  the  flowery  path  adorn, 
And   Hope  and    Pleasure  greet   th'  enraptured 

sight ! 
The  sad  heart  mourns  o'er  Life's  gay  treasures 
fled, 
Yields  the  reluctant  breath,  and  slumbers  with  the 
dead ! 


•?s. 


i  FUGITIVE      POEMS.  Ill 

But  when  in  ripened  years, 
Like  those  which  slumber  now  in  Death's  em- 
brace, 
The  summons  comes — no  strife,  no  anxious 
fears 
The  parting  spirit  rend  ;  the  mortal  race 
Is  run  ;  the  soul  awaits  its  call  in  peace, 
And  soars  on  joyous  wing,  exultant  in  release  ! 


How  sweet  the  soft  repose ! 
As  anxious  mothers  come,  the  Death  drew  near, 

(Or  like  soft  winds  to  lull  the  dying  rose  !) 
Breathed  a  hushed  whisper  in  the  willing  ear : 
While  the  glad  spirit  stretched  its  joyous  hand, 
And  roved  with  her  grim  guide,  to  seek  the  better  ^ 
land! 

And  when  my  race  is  run — 
Or  be  it  soon,  or  even  in  age,  unblest — 

As  the  tired  soldier,  when  the  fight  is  done, 
Lays  by  the  harness  from  his  girded  breast^ 
So  may  my  spirit,  in  the  strife  victorious, 
Lay  by  its  earth-bom  cares,  for  heavenly  mansions 
glorious. 


K^ 


R- 


112 


'S 


FUGITIVE      POEMS 


^«^^^«#N««#N^^*«tf%^«^«#N«^i% 


THE  FLOWERET. 


I  MARKED,  when  the  morning  sun  shone  bright, 
Where  a  floweret  in  beauty  grew ; 

Its  petals  oped  to  the  rosy  light, 
As  it  laughed  in  the  sparkling  dew  ! 

And  a  grateful  fragrance  the  blossom  flung 

To  the  sportive  winds  at  play : 
While  o'er  it  a  raptured  wild  bird  hung, 

And  caroled  his  love-taught  lay. 

I  came  again,  when  an  hour  had  flown, 

And  sought  for  my  floweret  fair ; 
All  vain,  alas  I  for  the  blossom  was  gone, 

And  sad  was  the  silent  air ! 

I  mourned  when  I  thought  on  its  radiant  hue, 
And  remembered  its  look  of  pride  ; 

I  bowed  me  in  grief  where  its  beauty  grew. 
And  wept  where  my  floweret  died ! 


Then  I  turned  my  gaze  to  the  azure  sky, 
And  I  thought  on  the  God  above. 

Who  heareth  the  hungry  ravens'  cry, 
And  whose  hohest  name  is  Love  ! 


S3 


^^ 


FUGITIVE       POEMS. 


113 


-S3 


6- 


And  I  dried  my  tears  as  my  Fancy  roved 

To  the  realm  by  angels  trod  ; 
For  I  knew  that  the  blossom  from  Earth  removed, 

Bloomed  bright  in  the  gardens  of  God  ! 

Oh,  ye,  who  have  watched  o'er  its  fragrant  birth, 

As  it  oped  to  the  balmy  day. 
Weep  not  that  no  longer  it  smileth  on  Earth, 

To  gladden  your  weary  way  ! 

No  more  shall  ye  fear  for  the  Morning's  blight, 
Nor  dread  the  cold  chills  of  Even  ; 

For  afar,  in  a  realm  of  celestial  light. 
Your  floweret  is  blooming  in  Heaven ! 


8 


K- 


114 


-g 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


^^^f^^^^^>^^f^^^^^r^^^^^^^^^^^^f^^^^r^^F'»^'^»i^s^>^^^'t^-^s^s^»^^^»^i^^^^»^>^^*^t^^t^^ 


SONG  OF  THE  WAYFARING. 

Here  let  us  rest,  my  weary  friend, 

Beside  this  rippling  stream  ; 
For  long  has  been  our  tiresome  march, 

And  fierce  the  sultry  beam : 
Let 's  sit  beneath  this  spreading  shade, 

Which  "woos  our  steps  to  stay ; 
And  we  will  drink  the  cooling  wave 

To  loved  ones  far  away  I 

Fill  high  the  cup !  though  we  full  oft 

Have  quaffed  the  ruddy  wine, 
This  purling  stream  will  sweeter  seem 

Than  juices  t)f  the  vine. 
Then  let  us  not  for  goblets  sigh — 

Their  gleams  too  oft  betray  ; 
But  we  will  drink  the  crystal  wave 

To  loved  ones  far  away ! 


'T  is  sweet  to  muse  on  distant  friends. 

To  Memory  fondly  dear, 
And  feel  we  are  not  all  forgot, 

While  resting  lonely  here ; 
Oh,  sweet  the  thought  that  they  may  think 

Full  oft  of  those  who  stray ; 
And  now,  perchance,  do  kindly  drink 

To  loved  ones  far  away ! 


♦23 


53 

FUGITIVE      POEMS.  115 


But  look,  my  friend,  at  yonder  Sun — 

'T  is  hastening  down  the  west ; 
And  we  must  speed  our  weary  course, 

Till  night-fall  bid  us  rest ; 
But  draw  once  more  from  out  the  stream, 

And  yet  one  moment  stay  ; 
And  we  will  drink  a  parting  cup 

To  loved  ones  far  aw^ay  I 


116 


$  ^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS 


MINSTREL,  SING  THAT  SONG  AGAIN. 

Minstrel,  sing  that  song  again, 

Plaintive  in  its  solemn  flow ; 
Memory  owns  its  magic  strain, 

Loved  and  cherished  long  ago  : 
Lo  !  the  Past,  the  mystic  Past, 

Rises  through  the  vista  dim ; 
Just  as  twilight's  shades  are  cast 

At  the  Day's  departing  hymn ! 


•53 


Minstrel,  't  was  an  eve  like  this  ; 

Stars  were  spangling  all  the  sky ; 
Every  zephyr  spoke  of  bliss, 

Floating  in  its  fragrance  by :         • 
Then,  within  our  moonlit  bower. 

One,  with  voice  like  Music's  own. 
Sweetly  charmed  the  lingering  hour. 

To  the  soft  lute's  silvery  tone ! 

As  the  witching  cadence  fell 

Wild  within  our  bower  of  Love, 
Angel  bands  might  prove  the  spell. 

Bending  from  the  courts  above  ! 
Minstrel,  chant  once  more  the  air, 

Soft  as  Spring's  departing  breath : 
She  who  sang  its  numbers  there 

Slumbers  as  the  bride  of  Death ! 


-22 


^' 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  117 

Minstrel,  chide  thou  not  my  tears — 
Thou  hast  waked  a  mournful  theme  : 

Memory  roves  the  slumbering  years, 
^    Like  some  dear,  forgotten  dream  : 

Day  will  come,  with  joy  and  gladness. 
Cares  once  more  will  fling  their  blight; 

Chide  not,  then,  my  spirit's  sadness — 
Minstrel,  let  me  weep  to-night  I 


118  FUGITIVE      POEMS. 


^tf^^^^^'v 


THE  SLEEPING  PILGRIM. 
A  FRAGMENT. 


As  the  night  advanced,  one  after  another  of  the 
throng  disappeared,  for  the  enjoyment  of  their 
allotted  "accommodations."  Feeling  little  inclina- 
tion to  sleep,  we  lingered  in  the  forward  cabin.  It 
was  still  crowded,  despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 
On  one  side  were  seated  a  group,  earnestly  discus- 
sing the  great  political  events  of  the  day.  At  a  little 
distance,  a  band  were  surrounding  a  table,  eagerly 
absorbed  in  the  magic  of  a  game  at  cards.  Yet 
amid  the  varied  scenes,  our  attention  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  one  object  of  absorbing  interest. 

An  old  man  was  reposing  upon  a  settee.  He  had 
numbered  full  four-score  years.  His  plain  garb  be- 
spoke the  most  abject  poverty.  His  head  rested 
upon  a  coarse  wallet — perchance  containing  his 
earthly  all.  He  was  lying  upon  his  side,  and  still 
held  within  his  grasp  a  rude  staff— the  sole  com- 
panion of  his  loneliness — which  rested  upon  the 
floor.  What  it  was  that  so  peculiarly  attracted  us, 
it  is  diflicult  to  define.  But  his  age,  his  coarse 
attire,  his  rude  staff,  his  simple  wallet — the  easy 
composure  of  his  aged  frame,  together  with  the 
silvery  locks  lying  carelessly  over  his  furrowed 
brow — all  combined,  formed  a  picture,  the  like  of  ,^ 


•S3 

FUGITIVE      POEMS.  119 


which,  in  all  our  acquaintance  with  mankind,  we 
had  never  gazed  upon.  Here  was  the  exact  coun- 
terpart of  our  "  Sleeping  Child."  We  beheld  before 
us  a  hoary  pilgrim,  way-worn  and  weary  with  the 
journey  of  life,  resting  as  it  were  by  its  way-side, 
to  refresh  his  flagging  spirits  from  their  toils.  All 
that  Fancy  had  ever  pictured  to  us  of  such  a  cha- 
racter, all  of  the  spirit's  dreamy  ideal,  was  here 
fully  and  perfectly  embodied.  No  part  of  the  pic- 
ture was  wanting.  We  sighed  that  Merrill  was 
not  with  us,  to  cause  the  canvas  vividly  to  exhibit 
what  our  sketch  but  feebly  portrays.  We  turned, 
and  addressed  some  one  near  us,  and  directed  his 
attention  to  the  object  of  our  interest.  He  stared  at 
the  old  man— then  at  us — laughed,  and  passed  on. 
Poor  fool !  No  doubt  he  pitied  our  derangement ! 
Long  and  earnestly  did  we  gaze  upon  the  simple 
scene  before  us.  We  wished  to  invite  the  sleeper 
to  our  own  more  welcome  couch ;  but  we  would 
not  break  his  peaceful  slumber.  He  had  forgotten, 
for  a  time,  his  cares,  and  we  left  him  to  the  sooth- 
ing influences  of  "  kind  Nature's  sweet  restorer." 

Sleep  was  long  a  stranger  to  our  pillow.  And 
when,  at  length,  the  dreamy  power  did  prove  propi- 
tious, still  wakeful  Fancy  wandered  to  the  old  pil- 
grim's side. 


**  The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar,** 

but  the  old  man  still  holds  a  place  in  our  memory. 
Perchance  ere  this  the  clods  of  the  valley  are  green 


^ 


]20 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


'^ 


upon  his  breast.  But  we  see  him  still,  reposing  by 
Life's  way-side,  in  his  dreaming  rest.  And  once, 
when  the  vision  rose  with  peculiar  vividness,  and 
would  not  "  down  at  our  bidding,"  our  Fancy  thus 
portrayed  the  hidden  sentiment  of  our  heart : — 

Sleep,  weary  Pilgrim !    Night  hath  closed  around 
thee, 
And  Day's  tired  watchers  fold  their  limbs  to  rest ; 
No  more  doth  press  the  chain  of  care  that  bound 
thee. 
No  more  doth  Grief  harass  thine  aged  breast ! 

;  Sleep,  weary  Pilgrim !  Time  hath  left  his  token 
In  the  thin  locks  which  guard  thy  temples  gray ; 
Thy  manly  frame  with  Age  is  bowed  and  broken, 
And  all  thy  Life's  delight  hath  passed  away ! 

Then  rest,  lorn  Pilgrim  !  and,  in  sleep  reposing, 
Bid  Time  roll  back  the  periods  of  his  flight — 

While  wizard  Memory,  hidden  charms  disclosing, 
Calls  up  lost  scenes  to  glad  thy  raptured  sight ! 


They  come,  they  come !  thy  foot  is  on  the  moun> 
tain, 
Whose  rugged  paths  thy  boyhood  loved  to  tread : 
And  now  thou  lingerest  by  the  gushing  fountain, 
Where  gloomy  pines  their  solemn  shade  o'er- 
spread ! 


,6^ 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  121 

Dream  on !    the  Summer's   morn,   with   flowery 
treasure, 
Doth  woo  thee  forth  to  rove  the  dewy  vale  : 
\  Thy  glad  heart  thrills  to  Hope's  entrancing  measure, 
And  joy  comes  wafted  on  the  scented  gale  ! 

The  live-long  day  thybhthesome  steps  are  wending, 
Or  pausing  mid  the  reaper's  fragrant  toil  j 

When  Night's  dim  shades  with  Day's  fair  hues  are 
blending, 
Back  to  thy  cot  thou  bring' st  thy  simple  spoil ! 

The  grave  gives  back  its  sleepers :  wild  resound- 
ing, 
The  pleasant  woods  return  a  jocund  shout : 
A  merry  band,  on  sportive  pastime  bounding. 
Seek  where  the  nut-trees  spread  their  treasures 
out  I 

Sleep  on,  old  man !  I  would  not  break  the  vision 
Which  charms  thy  spirit,  with  its  rapturous  spell : 

For  Earth  no  more  can  bring  thee  joys,  Elysian, 
Like   those  blest  scenes  thy  boyhood  loved  so 
well! 


Sleep,  weary  Pilgrim  !  soon  the  hastening  morrow 
Will  rouse  her  sleepers  to  the  busy  day : 
J  And  thou  wilt  waken  from  thy  dream  in  sorrow, 
\      To  view  thy  pleasures  flit  in  gloom  aw^ay. 


122  FUGITIVE      POEMS. 


Then  gird  thy  loins,  and  on  thy  staff  reclining, 
Press  on.  nor  gaze  in  fond  despondence  back  : 

Cheer  thee,  old  Pilgrim,  from  thy  vain  repining : 
Soon,  soon  shall  end  thy  journey's  painful  track. 

And  when  the  goal  shall  greet,  thy  steps  inviting, 
Thy  failing  heart  shall  find  new  vigor  given  : 

Lay  thee  right  gladly  on  its  breast  delighting,    ' 
And  sleep  the  sleep  which  waketh  unto  Heaven  ! 


FUGITIVE     POEMS.  123 


^' 


CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST. 

Lone  Night,  descending  with  her  sable  shroud, 
Had  darkly  canopied  the  troubled  deep  ! 
All,  all  in  gloom  was  mantled  ;  and  the  barque 
That  bore  the  Saviour,  with  his  timid  band, 
Held  silent  on  her  way  :  no  kindly  ray 
To  aid  its  guidance — not  one  glimmering  star — 
But  all  was  deep,  impenetrable  gloom  ! 
Still  to  its  doubtful  course  that  gallant  ship 
Moved  on,  obedient,  through  the  dread  profound ! 


Hark !    to  the  warning !     Mark  the  quivering 
gleam ! 
Down— down — the  Tempest  plunges  on  the  Sea, 
And  the  mad  waves  rise  up  to  buffet  it — 
And  now  like  angry  demons  they  contend  ! 
Loud  peals  the  thunder,  quick  the  lightnings  flash, 
The  hoarse-toned  Tempest  howls  along  the  wave, 
And  Galilee  heaves  from  her  rocky  base  ! 

But  ah  !  by  the  red  lightning's  fitful  glare, 
What  barque  is  plunging  mid  the  billowy  strife, 
And  dashing  madly  on  to  fearful  doom  1 
'T  is  His — the  Saviour's  !    Now  it  mounts  the 

wave. 
And  rises,  threatening,  to  the  frowning  sky, 


-S3 

124  FUGITIVE     POEMS. 

And  now,  down,  headlong,  in  the  yawning  depths, 
While  swelling  seas  break  o'er  it  in  their  wrath ! 
But  where  is  He — the  Master?  heeds  he  not 
The  bursting  anguish,  and  heartrending  cry  1 
Upon  the  deck,  amid  the  billows'  roar, 
And  breaking  surges,  lo !  he  sleepeth  there, 
Calm  as  an  infant,  on  its  nurse's  breast  I 

But  now  a  wave,  high  rising  o'er  the  deep, 
Lifts  its  dire  crest,  "nd,  hke  a  vengeful  fiend, 
Comes  as  a  mountain  on  !    The  'frighted  band 
Fly  in  their  frenzy  to  their  sleeping  Lord, 
And  in  despair's  lorn  accents  shriek  for  aid : 
"  We  perish  Master  !  save  us,  save  us,  Lord  !  " 

He  rose,  and  with  a  calm,  benignant  mein, 
Looked  on  the  storm  :  then,  with  a  majesty, 
As  if  the  Tempest  were  his  willing  slave. 
Commanded,  "  Peace,  be  still  I  " 

The  thunders  hushed ; 
The  trembling  lightnings  fled  away  in  fear ; 
The  foam-capt  surges  sunk  to  quiet  rest ; 
The  raging  winds  grew  still : 

There  was  a  calm ! 


tS" 


^ 


FUGITIVE      POEMS 


125 


LIFE-ITS  SEASONS. 


Life  hath  its  Spring-time  !    Childhood's  mom, 

When  pure  is  young  affection's  ray  j 
Gay  are  the  flowers  its  path  adorn, 
And  bright  the  hues  of  opening  day": 
Wild  music  lingers  in  its  bowers. 
Grateful  the  fragrance  of  its  flowers, 

And  all  betokens  bliss  : 
Hope  weaves  her  wild,  enchanting  song, 
And  sings,  at  every  path  along, 
That  all  shall  be  like  this  I 
Time's  rapid  footsteps  never  stay — 
Life's  golden  Spring-time  speeds  away ! 


n. 


Life  hath  its  Summer !    Ardent  now 
Is  Manhood's  toil.  Ambition's  sway ; 

Hope  lighteth  still  the  fevered  brow, 
And  sweetly  sings  the  coming  day : 


^ 


126  FUGITIVE      POEMS. 

Fond  are  affection's  whispers,  bland, 
And  warm  is  Friendship's  proffered  hand, 

Summer's  horizon  fair ; 
But  ah  !  anon  a  cloud  is  seen  ; 
Dark  and  more  dark  its  threatening  mein — 
A  Tempest  gathers  there  ! 
Sunlight  and  storm  are  o'er,  at  last ; 
Life's  fitful  Summer-time  is  past ! 


IIL 


Life  hath  its  Autumn  !    Where  have  fled 

Those  flattering  promises  of  Spring  1 
Alas  !  like  withered  roses,  dead, 
Around  no  sweet  perfume  they  fling : 

Hope  hath  been  false,  as  she  was  fair ; 
The  smile  hath  fled,  and  gathering  care 

And  woe  around  are  cast ; 
Gloomy  is  Life's  late  lovely  bower, 
Here  falls  a  leaf,  there  fades  a  flower, 
And  chill  the  dreary  blast ! 
The  showers  of  ruin  fall  around  ; 
Life's  withered  foliage  strews  the  ground ! 


IV. 


Life  hath  its  Winter !    Snowy  Age, 
When  Manhood's  noblest  vigors  fail ! 

Weary  becomes  the  chequered  page, 
Cold  is  the  Wintry,  piercing  gale  : 


'33 


K 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


127 


««N^«««^N^I^k^ 


The  faltering  step,  the  trembling  limb, 
The  flagging  pulse,  the  eye-ball  dim, 

Alike  deliverance  crave : 
Fainter — yet  fainter — hark  !  the  breath ! 
Oh  haste  thee,  tyrant,  angel.  Death ! 
Welcome  the  frightful  grave ! 
'T  is  finished !    Life's  short  journey 's  done- 
The  Sun  hath  set— the  Seasons  run ! 


K^ 


'^ 


NOTES. 


I  The  melancholy  event  here  commemorated,  will  doubtless  be 
fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  reader.  Mr.  Adams,  who  met  an 
untimely  fate,  by  the  less  of  this  vessel,  was  a  young  gentleman  of 
superior  talenU  and  attaimnents,  and  a  resident  of  Hartford,  Cu 

2  AflU  the  mourning  winds  are  sighing 
Sadly  o'er  thy  lowly  tomb. 

This  Hymn  was  sung  at  the  Baptist  Church  in  Hartford,  when 
a  funeral  sermon  was  delivered  by  Rev.  Henry  Jackson,  upon  the 
sudden  death  of  a  young  and  lovely  daughter  of  Rev.  Gurdou 
Robins.    She  had  been  buried  during  the  preceding  week. 

3  I  marked  him  mid  the  household  train. 

The  occasion  of  this  article  was  the  death  of  Mr.  Ezekiel  Hunt- 
ley, (formerly  of  Norwich,  Ct.,)  at  the  residence  of  his  daughter, 
Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney,  of  Hartford.  Mr.  Huntley  died  at  the  ad- 
vanced age  of  87,  full  of  years  and  virtues. 

4  Friend  of  my  soul !  while  yet  I  hear 
Thy  kindly  voice's  farewell  tone — 

Richard  Bacon,  Jr.,  a  young  gentleman  of  great  worth  and  su- 
perior endowments,  died  at  Hartford,  Ct.,  Dec.  29,  1838,  under 
circumstances  peculiarly  distressing.  He  was  buried  at  Sims- 
bury,  where  his  family  resided,  Jan.  1,  1839. 

5  In  your  ancient  burial  place. 

This  Epitaph  was  prepared  for  a  .Monument  erected  by  the 
citizens  of  Farmington,  Ct.,  over  some  re-interred  bones,  which 
had  by  accident  been  disturbed,  in  an  ancient  burial  spot  of  the 
Tuuxis  tribe.    The  same  place  is  now  a  Christian  cemetery. 


^S2 


